Flotilla
by callalili
Summary: Of patchwork ships and oddities. A collection of unusual pairings from Mass Effect.
1. Flagship

A/N: Tali/MShep

* * *

When the humans show up and gun down the assassins, Tali is surprised and grateful, but it is only later, when she hears about the Sovereign and Saren and the geth, that she decides to join them; "Our Pilgrimage proves we are willing to give of ourselves for the greater good," Tali tells the human commander, when he looks at her askance. "What does it say about me if I turn my back on this?"

"Well," Shepard says, looking surprised. "Great. Thanks, we could use your help."

And everyone makes her feel welcome, even Ashley who dislikes aliens, even Shepard who is now a Spectre for the Citadel Council.

—

She falls in love with the Normandy the moment she steps onboard—it is fast and sleek and breathtakingly beautiful, utterly silent when it moves and full of dangerous weaponry. Somehow Tali manages to talk the Chief Engineer into giving her a tour of the engine room, and he is busy explaining to her the Tantalus drive core when Shepard comes up behind them.

"Adams," Shepard says, looking between them. "Tali."

The Engineer jumps to attention and snaps out a salute. "Commander."

"What's going on?"

"I was just giving Tali a tour, sir."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, sir," Adams says, staring straight ahead.

Shepard grins, suddenly. "Relax, Adams," he says. "I'm not here to grill you about showing the quarians the secrets to our cutting-edge technology. How do you like the Normandy, Tali?"

"It's wonderful," she tells him, sincerely. "Commander, I would like to help out in engineering, if you do not mind—"

"Why would I mind?" he asks. "Anyway, up to you, Adams."

"Yes, sir," Adams says, looking much relieved.

And that is when Tali learns that the Normandy is an unusual ship, even for humans, and Shepard is an unusual commander.

He comes to talk to her later, when she is examining the ship alone. "So I hear from Adams that you're a technological genius," Shepard says. "Is it just you, or are all quarians like that?"

"All quarians, I'm afraid," Tali admits. "On the Flotilla, everyone must help in maintaining the ships, or else we would never have survived as long as we have."

"And here I was, thinking you were special," Shepard says.

Tali peers at him curiously. "Was that a joke, Shepard?" she asks.

"Yeah." He smiles ruefully. "I'm not very funny, am I?"

"Oh, no," she assures him. "I'm sure it was just the translation protocol."

Shepard laughs. "Thanks, Tali."

—

When they go to Noveria, she is surprised at how cold it is; ice and wind and sleet everywhere, and snow, whirling white, all across her vision—she has never seen snow before. She is enchanted for all of half a minute, before she realizes that she is freezing even through her enviro-suit. Tali shivers all the way from the docking bay to the customs office, and even their cool reception from Noveria's security forces is nothing compared to the weather.

But she is pleased when Shepard asks her to accompany him as he tracks down Benezia; "You're the best hacker on the Normandy," he tells her, "and I get the feeling these corporations aren't going to be willing to talk. Want to come along?"

"Yes, certainly," Tali says, giddy with adventure, and Shepard grins at her enthusiasm.

It is all terribly exciting; she breaks into corporate secrets and classified records, and there is so much the corporations are doing that is dangerous and wrong. But Shepard has a light in his eyes that makes her think these corporations will not be doing these things for much longer—if he had been a quarian, she thinks, he would have made a good captain.

He is a good captain anyway. Shepard is incorruptible.

—

The adventure wears off after a while. Tali thinks it is somewhere between taking down her hundredth geth trooper and wiping rachni blood off her armor; she is tired, too, of the cold, and she is glad when Benezia is dead and everyone is safely back on the Normandy.

Shepard comes to talk to her afterward. "Hey," he says, coming up behind her so suddenly that she jumps. And, "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

"It's all right," she says. "How is Liara?"

"Upset." Shepard rubs that back of his neck, absently. "But she'll be all right, I think. She's tougher than she looks."

All asari are. "That's good."

Something in her tone must have given her away, because Shepard gives her an odd look and says, "You all right?"

And Tali considers telling him about the engine, and how it is so quiet that sometimes when she is just on the edge of sleep she will jerk awake, alone and terrified that she is back on the Flotilla and something has malfunctioned; she considers telling him about how empty the ship is, as though half the crew has moved elsewhere; she considers telling him that she is tired, tired, tired of eating dull nutrient paste. But instead all that comes out is: "I think I'm homesick, Shepard."

For some reason, he doesn't look surprised. "That happens," he says. "When I signed up with the Alliance, I called my mother every day for two weeks."

Somehow she cannot imagine it. "Really?"

Shepard grins. "Yeah," he says. "Hey, the Normandy has a comm room, do you want—"

But Tali is already shaking her head. "I am supposed to prove that I can be independent," she says. "My father will disapprove if I call."

"Your father?"

Somehow she finds herself telling Shepard about her father and her mother and her ship, all the silly things she is sure he wouldn't be interested in, but Shepard listens anyway; "Maybe that's the point of this Pilgrimage," he says, when she is through. "To teach you about appreciating the things you have."

"Maybe." She fiddles with her omni-tool, feeling a little foolish now. "Thanks for listening, Shepard."

"Hey, no problem," he says. "It was interesting. I'm here if you want to talk, all right? Anytime."

He looks as though he means it.

She finds herself wondering, afterwards, what he would look like if he were a quarian.

—

She likes Shepard, Tali decides. He is a good captain and he does not treat her differently simply because she is young, and not a human—and she enjoys his company when he comes to talk to her.

"Thanks, I think," Shepard says, and looks slightly puzzled when she tells him this. "Were you not expecting that?"

Tali shrugs. "Many species treat my people like second-class citizens. They think of us as beggars and thieves—and people still blame the quarians for creating the geth."

"You know," Shepard says thoughtfully, "a wise man once told me that aliens were saints and jerks, just like humans. I think he was right."

"Who said that?" she asks, curious.

"Lieutenant Alenko," Shepard admits. "But it sounds better if I say 'a wise man.'"

"And which am I, Shepard?"

He grins. "Oh, definitely a saint."

So perhaps he enjoys her company, too. "And what are you?" she asks.

"Hey, I'm the alien to you," he says. "So you tell me."

She considers.

"And don't say a little bit of both, either," Shepard adds, and there is a devilish edge to his smile. "That's cheating."

"Was that a joke, Shepard?"

"Yeah," he admits.

Tali finds herself smiling. "You are a tease, then," she says.

Shepard looks startled at that, but she doesn't find out why until much later, when Ashley Williams, gasping with laughter, explains to her what exactly that means to a human.

—

They are hunting down missing soldiers on a hot, dusty planet—grunt work for the Alliance, Shepard calls it—when suddenly the signal from the beacon she is tracking disappears, and a thresher maw bursts out of the ground before them. Shepard swears. They leap free of the wrecked Make just before it goes up in flames—there really should be more safety precautions against that sort of thing, Tali thinks muzzily, scrambling behind a rock as the thresher maw roars with enough force to make the ground rumble. Shepard is shouting orders. She can't hear him.

To her left, Garrus pulls out a grenade and tosses it into the thresher maw's jaw. Bits of acid and thresher maw go flying past them. "Get down!" he shouts, and she hears that, and drops onto her stomach.

Which turns out to be a bad idea; the ground opens up below her, and Tali is scrambling out of a crevasse as the thresher's death throes make the earth crack and split in interesting and deadly ways.

"Commander!" That is Garrus again. She looks up in time to see Shepard tumble past her, dust and blood and metal everywhere; she barely manages to grab him by the wrist, and there are a few moments of confusion before they come to a stop in an ungainly tangle of limbs and weaponry, centimeters away from the edge of what is now a deep pit filled with acid. They both stare at it.

"I—thanks," Shepard says, into the sudden silence.

"You're welcome, Shepard."

He scrambles up and helps her to her feet. "The Mako's wrecked," he says, picking up his gun. "I'm going to call the Normandy for pickup. You ok?"

"Yes."

Shepard nods. Tali wanders over to Garrus, who is bent over the Mako and scowling. "Damned thresher maw," the turian mutters. "Look at this, ripped right through our shields—"

"We can fix it," Tali says, considering. It has stopped burning, at least. "It needs a new fuel tank."

"Yeah, and new tires, and new plating—"

She leaves Garrus off to his grumbling, and goes to investigate the beacon. A lure, she thinks, examining it. Nearby, there is a piece of metal sticking out from the dust. She tugs it out.

It is a section of armor with the Alliance insignia on it. Shepard is grim when he sees it.

"A lure," he says, echoing her thoughts. And, "God damn it, those heartless bastards."

But justice will be done, Tali thinks, watching him carefully.

—

"Cerberus," he growls to her, hours later on the Normandy. Shepard has stripped off his armor and weapons, but looks no less fierce for that fact; he runs a hand across his forehead and scowls off into the distance. "They're doing experiments. I can't believe the Alliance left them alone for so long."

Half of Lower Engineering is staring at them. "Shepard?"

"Huh?" He glances around and lowers his voice. "Oh. Sorry."

"Maybe we should go somewhere else?" Tali suggests.

"Right. Yeah."

They leave Engineering. In the corner, Garrus is working on the mangled Mako. Shepard shoves his hands into his pockets and lets out a deep breath. "Sorry," he says again. "Kahoku wasn't happy. I don't blame him."

"He was their captain," Tali says. "It must be hard to lose his crew, all at once."

"Yeah," Shepard says, leaning against the wall. He casts her a glance. "Hey, you ever take that mask off?"

"I can't," she reminds him.

"It's just—you look a little like a geth."

Tali shrugs. It is true. "We made them," she says. "Their basic design principle was patterned on quarian biology. And it was easier to give them helmets than to design faces. They didn't care."

"So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them—" Shepard is quoting from something. "The Bible," he adds, when she tilts her head at him curiously. "Genesis something-or-other, I don't remember the exact quote."

"One of your human religions?" The translation protocol is tossing references at her. A creator God; how interesting.

"Yeah. Well, not mine. But it's pretty popular." Shepard is frowning again. "Can I ask you for a favor?"

"Certainly." Anything.

"It's not entirely legal—but if you could find anything on Cerberus—"

"I'll look into it," she assures him. Encryption is not her strong point, but she is sure she can ask Garrus for help, and together they should turn up some sort of lead. "We'll get them, Shepard."

"First Saren, then the Reapers, now this," Shepard says ruefully. "Sometimes I wonder if we're ever going to run out of conspiracies to uncover."

"I'm starting to think they follow you around," Tali tells him, and Shepard laughs at that.

"Like ducklings," he says, chuckling. "Now that's a thought. Evil ducklings that disappear when I turn around to look." He slants her a glance, grinning. "Hey, you know, all the boys down on Engineering want to know what you look like."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Two eyes," she tells him. "Front-facing, with eyelids and tear ducts. And an endoskeleton with a similar bone structure for the skull. A nose. Very similar to humans, actually."

"Yeah," Shepard says, "but they want to know what you look like."

Tali is curious. "Why?"

"Oh, come on," Shepard says, rolling his eyes. "You're a mechanical genius. Of course they want to know what you look like. You'd be their dream girl if you were pretty on top of, you know, smart and enigmatic. Not that you should encourage them."

Humans are very strange. "And you?" Tali asks. "Are you curious?"

Shepard grins again. "Nah," he says. "I'm sure you're gorgeous."

She does not want to disappoint him. Shepard is her captain, but even more than that, she likes him—if he had been a quarian, she thinks, and she had finished her Pilgrimage and joined his ship—

No, that is silly. He is her captain; she should have stopped there.

But in any case, she does not want to disappoint him, and she does anyway. Even with Garrus's help, the information on Cerberus comes several days too late for Kahoku; Shepard swears bloody vengeance, and she believes him, but the Rear Admiral is still dead when they return to the Normandy to hunt down Cerberus's headquarters.

But: "Don't apologize," Shepard says tersely. "It wasn't your fault."

He slumps down next to her on a deserted deck in the engineering bay. They make an odd pair, the two of them—the human and the quarian, the captain and the mechanic. Tali fiddles with her omni-tool and plays out Kahoku's message again. Perhaps there are coordinates encoded in it.

"I can't believe the Alliance wouldn't send reinforcements for him," Shepard says, staring out into the distance. "I mean, he had plenty of proof."

"What does Lieutenant Alenko say?"

"Dunno. Haven't talked to him yet."

That is strange enough for Tali to peer up from her decryption attempts. "Why not, Shepard?"

He gives her a tired smile. "I wanted to see you," he says.

"Oh." She is glad.

"Yeah," Shepard says. They are both quiet for a very long while—forty-two minutes, notes Tali, who is keeping track on her omni-tool—until finally Shepard sighs and says, "I better go."

But he does not look so brooding as he leaves.

—

Tali isn't there when Cerberus goes down. Shepard takes Wrex and Ashley with him, heavy combat soldiers both, and when they return triumphant she nearly misses it because Adams has her replacing some circuitry on the lower hull. But she hears Joker's announcement well enough.

And in any case, there is no missing the celebration going on in the mess hall. Shepard finds her. He is grinning and lighthearted after a successful mission.

"Thank you," Shepard says. "We'd never have found their base without your help."

She cannot help smiling back. "Is Cerberus gone?"

"Not by a long shot," Shepard says. "But it's going to take them a while to recover from this."

"Good."

"You going to have a drink with the rest of us?"

Tali shakes her head. "I can't," she reminds him.

"Oh, yeah." Shepard regards her for a moment. "Tell you what, I'll buy you a drink when we get back to the Citadel. From one of those turian places. How about that?"

If he had been a quarian, she would have taken that as an invitation—

She wants to take it as an invitation anyway. Which is silly. But: "I would like that," Tali says.

—

On Feros, Liara runs a little too far ahead of them in the Thorian's lair.

"Liara!" Shepard shouts.

But she is too far away. Tali pulls out her pistol and fires a warning shot; the asari turns just a second too late, and a creeper picks her up and slams her against the wall with enough force that Tali sees her entire body go limp. "Oh no," she says.

"Shit," Shepard says grimly, and takes careful aim with his sniper rifle. The creeper crumbles, Liara still in his grip. "Tali, cover my back, I'm going in."

She is not very good at cover fire, and her hacking is useless against these mindless organic things, but she tries her best anyway; only two creepers come up to them from behind, and she shoots one down, but the other is nearly upon her before she manages to smash it into submission with the butt of her pistol. By the time they reach Liara, her armor is covered with viscous green goo.

"She's not responding." Shepard is checking Liara's vitals. "Tali, you have any medi-gel left? She's got a pretty nasty bump on the back of her head—"

She has two packs left. Tali pulls one out and tosses it over. "The Thorian," she says, looking up at the enormous plant-thing growing all around them. "It's making more of those creepers, Shepard."

"We have to keep moving without Liara." Shepard stands and looks at her, his jaw set. "You ready? We have to kill that thing, and fast."

Liara's biotics had been the only thing that made the creeper hordes manageable. Tali nods anyway. "Ready, Shepard."

For a moment his eyes soften. "You're very brave," he tells her, pulling out his assault rifle. "Stay behind me. We'll get through this."

—

There are more green-skinned asari clones, and Tali wonders at how they can look so much like Liara and yet so not; Liara has always been kind, but these clones snarl and bare their teeth and try to kill her.

"I think they are getting angrier," Tali says, after the third one.

"It's the Thorian," Shepard says. He is favoring his left leg, but Tali pretends not to notice because he is trying to hide it. "It's getting desperate. Do you see the next node?"

"There." She points. Shepard fires.

Another clone bursts out from behind a nearby wall and hurls herself toward them; Tali scrambles backwards, firing wildly from her pistol, and the asari stretches out her arms and shoves—

She flies backward against a pillar.

When she opens her eyes again, it is several seconds later, and Shepard is desperately calling her name. "Shepard," she says. "I'm all right." Even if her head feels as though it is splitting in two.

He lets out a long breath and presses his hand to his eyes. "Christ, Tali, don't scare me like that."

"Another one of your human religions?" Because she cannot stand just yet.

"Same one as before."

But Christ is translated differently than God; humans are very strange, Tali thinks dizzily, as Shepard pulls her to her feet. There is a bloody gash across his cheek, but he waves her away impatiently when she offers him the medi-gel. "Save it," he says. "We might need it later. You sure you're all right?"

"Yes," she says, wobbling a little on her legs. Shepard catches her arm. "Did I get her?"

"The clone? Yeah. Nice shot."

She steps carefully over the crumpled green body. "We must be getting near the top," she says. "I think I see another node—"

"Tali."

She glances over. He has his assault rifle out again. "Bad news," he says, grim and bloody and determined. "Whole bunch of creepers coming up from below. I don't think we can outrun them."

"I'm behind you, Shepard."

He looks at her. There is the tiniest quirk to his lips. "I love you," he says.

"What?"

"Fire!" Shepard snaps, and that is an order, so she raises her pistol and fires as the creepers burst toward them; Shepard tosses their last grenade, and she closes her eyes against the momentary bright flash. There is a wet splattering sound. She manages to hit the one creeper who wasn't caught in the blast. It stumbles to its knees, howling; Shepard finishes if off with a quick shot from his own gun.

"Did you mean that?" Tali asks, staring at the green ooze dripping from the ceiling.

"Of course I did." He holsters his weapon. "Come on."

She follows him. After a moment, she manages: "But—why?"

"What do you mean, why?" Shepard demands. "You're brave and smart and damned good with an omni-tool. Watch your step, there's some loose rubble here." And, "Please tell me this isn't one-sided, I feel like enough of an idiot as it is."

"It—it isn't," she says, carefully picking her way behind him. "But I never expected—"

"Yeah," Shepard says. "Me neither. I think that's the last node."

"Wait," Tali says, before he can fire. "Shepard—why now?"

He smiles grimly. "Should've mentioned it earlier, huh? But humans like making dramatic confessions in the face of danger."

She stares at him, appalled.

"I'm mostly joking," Shepard adds ruefully. "You ready?"

"Ready," Tali says, raising her pistol.

He fires. The Thorian howls in fury.

—

Shepard detains her after the debriefing.

"Tali," he says, looking unusually grim, for such a successful mission with the Thorian dead and no civilian casualties. The rest of their squad is filing out the door, and she turns to face him rather reluctantly. "Can we talk?"

"What about?" she asks, even though she knows.

"Look, things got pretty heated back on Feros—"

She backs away.

"I know," Tali says. "I understand, Shepard. We both said things that we didn't mean, so it would probably be best if we just agree to forget—"

She breaks off. Shepard is staring at her as though she has grown a second head.

"Yeah," he says. "Maybe you did. I meant every word I said."

So had she. But it changes nothing. "We're different species, Shepard."

"Yeah," Shepard says, "I know. Dextro-protein based life form with an atrophied immune system and enhanced cybernetics—I looked it up." He looks very tired. "Tali, I know the facts. Did you think this was just—physical?"

None of this is physical; none of this will ever be physical, whatever this is, and for one long moment she looks at him and wishes that she were human. He loves her, and she wants him more than she can remember wanting anything in her life.

But. "Being fond of each other will not change anything."

"Fond?" Shepard is looking at her, incredulous. "Is that what you call it? And next you're going to be giving me the 'let's just be friends' speech?"

Some things translate perfectly fine across species. "What do you want, then?" she asks, because it is easier than asking herself what she wants; or, she knows what she wants, but it is impossible.

"To hear that you're a bit more than fond would be a nice start."

"It wouldn't change anything, Shepard." But she is.

"Gather ye roses while ye may," Shepard murmurs.

"What?"

"It means," Shepard says, "that we might die."

"Even if we do not, I am going back to the Migrant Fleet when my Pilgrimage is done," Tali reminds him. "And you will still be the first human Spectre with your pick of mates from your own species."

"You sound almost jealous," Shepard says, wry.

"Perhaps I am," she admits.

"Tali—"

She shakes her head. "Shepard, it is not going to happen."

"Yeah," he says. "I was afraid you would say that."

—

"You were right, you know," Shepard tells her later, as they face down some petty warlord's hirelings on some forsaken planet. Tali glances up from her omni-tool.

"About what?" she asks, curious.

"Nothing's changed," he says. "Not a single damned thing."

"It won't go well, Shepard."

"This isn't going very well, either," Shepard says, and picks off a sentry with his sniper rifle.

He wasn't talking about the warlord, but neither was she.

—

When Kaiden dies on Virmire Tali does not know what to think. Shepard is so unlike himself all the way back to the Citadel; he seeks her out in engineering, grim and weary, and she wonders when she had last seen him smile.

"Tali," he says.

She straightens up. "Shepard?"

He merely looks at her for a moment, as though he wants to say something but won't.

"I'm sorry," she offers. "About Kaiden, I mean. I liked him. I'm sorry you had to choose—but I think you did the right thing, Shepard."

"Yeah?" He doesn't look as though he believes her reassurance.

"Yes," she tells him. "If the bomb had not gone off, then it would all have been for nothing."

"Tali," Shepard says. "You're not Alliance."

"But I understand—"

"No." He is looking past her now, some distant point beyond her shoulder, and in the wavering light of the Tantalus core his eyes are dark and strange. "No, you don't. It if had been you up there on that AA tower I couldn't have made any sort of choice at all."

And Shepard turns on his heel and goes stalking out.

—

They steal the Normandy.

It is all very exciting, Tali thinks; well, except for the part where they might all be caught and executed, but besides that it is quite an adventure, on a trip that has already been so full of adventures. She hums a nursery song to herself, quietly, as she does some routine maintenance on the drive core—a sun and a star and a ship and a fleet, an engine humming beneath our feet—

"How's the Normandy doing?"

That is Shepard, over by the observation deck. Tali glances up. Chief Engineer Adams is drawing up the diagnostics for him; "She's doing great," Adams says. "Nothing to worry about, commander."

But the commander still looks worried, even as he nods and says, "Carry on, Adams."

"Yes, sir."

Shepard leaves without speaking to her, and Tali straightens up, frowning. That is unusual. "Is he all right?" she asks the Chief Engineer.

Adams shrugs, turning back to his diagnostics. "He had to leave a marine behind back on Virmire," he says. "Then our Ambassador tried to put him in lockdown, so he led the entire crew in mutiny and stole an Alliance spacecraft to take us on a mission facing certain death. I think the commander's taking it pretty hard."

Tali considers this.

"I am going on a break," she says finally. "I will see you later, Adams."

"Sure thing," Adams says.

She wanders out. Humans, she muses; they are so strange. Shepard is always more worried about his crew than his ship—without a ship, after all, a crew is nothing. But she supposes that humans are in no shortage of ships. Perhaps they are in a shortage of crew?

Shepard is hard to find. He is not in the mess hall, or up on the bridge with Joker, or even in the medical bay; finally she thinks to check the captain's quarters, and the door slides open at her knock, and she is rather surprised because Shepard is never in his quarters.

"Tali," Shepard says, sounding just as surprised as she is. "What are you doing here?"

He is sitting on his bed, reading something on his computer. "Can I come in?" she asks. "If you're not busy—"

Shepard grimaces and puts the computer aside. "No, go ahead," he says, "This is just—I don't know. I don't know why I'm reading a report on grain prices in Mindor."

She comes and perches next to him, carefully. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not very happy about this," he admits, looking down at his hands. "I could get everyone on the Normandy killed, you know. Or at least court-martialed."

"But we are stopping Saren," Tali reminds him. "That is important."

"Yeah," Shepard says. "But pretty dangerous, don't you think?"

She is quiet for a moment. Then she says, finally: "I looked up that poem."

"Sorry?"

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," she quotes, the words strange and unfamiliar even through the translation program, "Old Time is still a-flying; and this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying."

"The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, the higher he's a-getting—the sooner will his race be run, and nearer he's to setting," Shepard finishes for her, and casts her a rueful glance. "I don't suppose this means you've changed your mind?"

She looks down. "I didn't want you to be unhappy," Tali says. "And I thought, if we encourage—this—then it will be worse when we leave, so it would be better not to start at all—"

"This isn't something that I can turn on or off."

"But—"

"It isn't," Shepard says, sounding aggrieved. "Believe me, Tali, I've tried, and it won't go away, all right? This isn't something I can change."

And she understands.

"I love you," Tali says, very softly—but it isn't as though there is a lot of noise in Shepard's quarters, so he hears her loud and clear. It is a little embarrassing. But. Only a little.

Shepard does not touch her. In all likelihood, he will never touch her; but for the moment it hardly matters; he looks at her, instead, and merely waits. Tali supposes that he has waited long enough to deserve an explanation.

"I've been thinking," she says. "If we face Saren and come out alive—well, this still will not be possible. But if we die, then I will be sorry not to have spent this time with you. So perhaps we can be impossible later. Afterward, when there is time."

He is smiling, and that is worth any amount of impossible confessions. "Very philosophical."

She is learning wisdom. Even her father would be proud. "Your human poetry is very interesting, Shepard."

"Want to see more?" Shepard is already reaching for his computer. "I should show you Petrarch—"

He reads to her.

Around them, the Normandy hums quietly as it goes leaping between the stars.

—

They both make it through, in the end—she on the ship, and Shepard pulled from the wreckage of the Citadel Tower, and they meet again in the medbay, battered and bruised but still alive.

"Shepard," Tali says, and she is glad to see his smile, no matter how wry.

"Still not happening, huh?" he asks.

Some things are immutable, like the patterns of the stars and the basics of biology. "No."

He sighs, pained. "Didn't think so."

"But I am glad that you are alive," Tali adds, and moves to sit a little closer to him on the medbay bench; some things are immutable, after all.

* * *

A/N: So I was thinking this would actually be a collection of short stories about various odd, non-canon pairings. If anyone wants to see anything in particular, let me know; otherwise I'll post things as I think of them. The primary ship will always be displayed at the top, so you can skip that particular story if you find it too squicky-but I will try to handle everything with as much grace and delicacy as possible, in keeping with the spirit of romance, and not, you know, freaking people out. This is a challenge to myself to see if I can make the stranger pairings work.


	2. Dreadnaught: Veritas

A/N: Liara/Wrex, because someone asked for that. This is more a series of drabbles than anything else.

* * *

I. Genocide

Liara thinks she knows about genocide.

She is asari, who have long lives and even longer memories, and she is young for an asari but she has studied the rachni wars and the krogan rebellions and the disappearance of the Protheans for decades upon decades; Liara thinks she knows about genocide, because she has spent her life on dusty backwater planets, reconstructing how millions of people died in an instant some fifty thousand years ago.

The Protheans had an empire spanning the galaxy. It fell beneath the onslaught of the Reapers. Now, there are no more Protheans—and if that is not genocide, then what is?

But it is not until she meets Wrex that she realizes how excruciatingly _slow_ a genocide can be. The Protheans were gone in a matter of centuries. The krogan have been dying for over a thousand years.

They are still dying. It is a death that will take millennia—and Liara, who is young for an asari, knows that she will not be there to see an end. Somehow she had always thought that genocide would be quicker. A blast of white-hot fire, for instance, as a star goes nova; a plague that mutates beyond the ability of scientists to combat; another species, faster, quicker, stronger, coming in with gunships and cannons ablaze.

Not this.

—

II. Blue

"T'soni," Wrex growls at her when she enters. "Let's get this over with."

"I—yes—I'm sorry—"

He eyes her. "Apologizing for anything in particular?" he demands, the glow of his biotics already spreading across his arm. "Or just your existence in general?"

She can feel herself flushing. There is a tugging at the edges of her clothing; she raises her own field to counteract it. "No, nothing," she says, as blue fills the room. "Sorry."

"You just did it again."

"I'm sor—" Liara claps her hand over her mouth, flustered. "Oh, goddess. You're right. Oh, I sound like an idiot—"

She is babbling. Liara stops talking immediately, wide-eyed and mortified, while Wrex looks amused and sends every unattached object in the practice room swinging through the air in a haze of blue.

—

III. Asari

This is the mind of an asari: arching and intricate, ribbon-like pathways curling away into the distance in graceful loops and swirls, and colored in all the shades of violet and silver that exist—and some that do not. When Liara thinks she thinks in conundrums and paradoxes: the Protheans were powerful, but they fell; Shepard is determined, but the Council is stubborn; she wants to live, but people keep shooting at her. Liara picks her way through tangles of thought and emotion, carefully, and records each step as she does so, because after all she is a scientist and believes in things like Proof and Rigor.

Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis. The Protheans were powerful, but they fell—the Reapers came from dark space and annihilated them all. Shepard is determined, but the Council is stubborn—they both need to compromise, a little each way, and everything will work out.

She wants to live, but people keep shooting at her—well, she will have to practice her shields.

Thesis, antithesis, and synthesis; two opposites (a paradox, a conundrum), and she puzzles through them until there is a conclusion. Liara is a scientist. If there is a question of _why_ or _how_ she will consider it until she has an answer; because all things can be answered.

Her mind is intricate but it is not tangled. There is a pattern to all things.

—

IV. Years

In retrospect, "I'm sorry your species is dying out," isn't the best way to begin a conversation.

But they are alone at the workbench on the lower deck, cleaning their weapons, and it is very quiet and very awkward and Liara needs to say _something _to break the silence or else she will start fidgeting from nervousness, and most likely drop her pistol, and the ammunition will explode and tear a hole in the hull, and then they'll all _die_—

"Me, too," says Wrex. "Probably sorrier than you are."

"Oh," Liara says, feeling like a fool. "I—I didn't mean to blurt that out."

"Yeah, I know." Wrex is doing something complicated with his assault rifle. "It's all right."

"Oh."

He casts her a glance. "Funny thing is," he says, wiping down the barrel with a cloth, "I always figured I'd have a kid or two by now. There's still some fertile females around. And I had the credits."

"What happened?" Possibly she shouldn't have, but it seems as though he is making an effort to make conversation, and in any case Liara is curious.

Wrex shrugs. "Didn't pan out. I tried a couple of times, but nothing came of it. Those salarians did a damned good job with the genophage."

"Oh," Liara says again. And, because she does not want to sound like a corrupted audio file, "You could always, um—"

"Spit it out, doctor."

"—try with an asari?" It's been done before. "You—you're very strong, and a powerful biotic, and your child wouldn't be a krogan, but—"

"Thanks, T'soni." Wrex is chuckling. "But I think I'm a thousand years too old for you."

Her jaw drops. "I—I wasn't—that wasn't a _proposition_—"

"Yeah? It sounded like one."

Oh.

Oh, it had, hadn't it? Liara can feel herself flushing. "Oh, _goddess_," she says, and covers her face with her hands. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking—"

"Relax," Wrex says. "I'm flattered, actually. Let me know if you do decide it's a proposition—I wouldn't mind trying it with an asari." Then, when Liara can only stare at him in mortified silence, he nods toward the pistol she is still holding in her hands. "Need some help with that?"

—

V. Speech

Sometimes the mind of an asari comes up with strange things.

Wrex, she thinks, is very direct. She isn't sure if it's because he's a krogan, or if it's because he's Wrex; Liara herself dislikes squabbling and violence, and she is asari—but she is also dreadfully shy, and that is her own fault entirely. So perhaps both? Which doesn't really answer the question.

Liara has never quite understood the complicated dances of social ritual—not saying certain things, or deferring to people who don't know what they're doing, or listening to advice from the well-intentioned but misinformed—which is why she has spent the past few decades in silent echoing ruins, surrounded by dead technology that won't try to talk to her. Liara has a tendency to blurt out the first thing on her mind; not always a good thing when she happens to be thinking something that would be dreadfully embarrassing to say out loud.

But Wrex never seems to mind. Which is a relief; he is direct, and expects everyone else to be, and even when she says something really silly like _I'm sorry your species is dying out_ all he does is look at her and say _Me, too_.

—and she's staring off into space thinking about him, like, like—

Like a Maiden with her first infatuation. Liara sighs. Oh, dear.

—

VI. Maiden

Thesis, antithesis—she wants, but she is afraid; she is curious, but she is afraid; she is impatient with herself for these feelings, but she is still afraid. And Dr. Liara T'soni, dedicated researcher, sits in her lab and does not think about her feelings because she does not even know where to begin. Her emotions are rapidly becoming tangled. There is an answer to this conundrum (this paradox) but for the life of her she cannot imagine what it is.

She has heard, from very reputable sources, that all Maidens go through this stage of self-doubt and anxiousness. It is a stepping-stone on the path to maturity. It is a lesson in melding, and intimacy, and connections. Adolescence is awkward for everyone, the Matriarchs say; in two or three or four centuries, you will look back on this and smile to remember all that you have learned.

Somehow these assurances do not make it easier for her right _now_.

—

VII. Proposition

"If I _were_ to proposition you—" (much, much later, after she has stopped being embarrassed about that time and that other time and oh dear that _other _time, and it seems like it is time to be embarrassed about something new)

Wrex looks up from a shelf of plutonium rounds. "Is that why you've cornered me in the ammo bay?"

"No!" Liara flushes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—that is—I was just wondering—"

"Yes."

"—what?"

"If you _were_ to proposition me, I'd say yes." Wrex picks up a lump of ammunition, peers at it, and sets it down again. "Was that what you wanted to know?"

"I—I mean, I also admire you a great deal, it isn't just that—" Liara stops. Oh, she should have stayed in the lab.

"Thanks." Wrex sounds amused. "Well, are you?"

"—what?"

"Propositioning me."

"Oh. That." This is quite possibly the most awkward moment of her life. Well, except perhaps for that one moment several years ago where she informed Matron Mellorene that her thesis was wrong, in front of a dozen other asari doctorates. But that does not make _this_ any less awkward. "Yes," Liara says, wondering if it is like this _all the time_, and if so, how her species has managed to not die out in all the millions of years that reproduction has been required to take place.

"All right," says Wrex. "So how is this supposed to go?"

—

VIII. Krogan

This is the mind of a krogan: all lines and planes and sharp edges, determination like tempered steel, and long, long stretches of nothing but _movement_ in one direction, very fast, while above the sky swirls an angry red. Wrex is very old. He has lived for centuries and will live for centuries yet—if he is lucky (and he usually is)—and in those years and years he has seen many things. Very little surprises him these days. Wrex thinks in straight lines and they do not bend.

The Protheans were powerful, and they fell. Shepard is determined, and the Council is stubborn. He wants to live, and people keep shooting at him. There are no questions to answer because there are no conundrums. All empires fall, and the Council are idiots, and if people are going to be shooting at him then they had damned well be prepared to die.

Wrex has a simple mind; linear; no Gordian knots of philosophy or theology to untangle.

Don't underestimate him, though.

Wrex thinks in straight lines, but those lines stretch out to infinity.

—

IX. Calm

"Well, we—we have to be very relaxed, and—and—" Liara is the opposite of relaxed. She is standing by the door, babbling and wringing her hands nervously, and she feels like an idiot. "—and we would connect to each other on a—a neural level, and—"

Wrex is looking more amused by the second. "You have no idea, do you?"

"Well, I don't have any practical experience—" Her face is hot. Liara stops talking, and wishes briefly for the Normandy to open up beneath her and swallow her whole.

"Yeah, it's kind of obvious."

She will not apologize. It certainly isn't her fault; she will not apologize, she will _not_—

"I'm sorry," bursts out of her before she can stop it. "Oh, goddess. I keep doing that, don't I?"

"Come here," Wrex says, from across the room. "I won't bite. Well, not unless you want me to, anyway." A pause. "Or you could stand in the doorway and let the entire crew hear this."

She is by his side in a flash, the door sliding closed behind her. Wrex chuckles.

"Relax, T'soni," he says. "This isn't supposed to hurt, is it?"

"No," she says, and stretches out ribbon-thin tendrils of violet and lavender and silver toward his mind as her eyes fill up with inky blackness—

—

IX. Eternity

This is an asari and a krogan in a melding: silver and slate and charcoal, crimson and magenta and scarlet; swirls of amethyst against tempered steel, edges and waves, shapes like understanding and dry wit and companionship; flying, or perhaps free-fall—

Thesis, antithesis, and a coming together that is greater than the sum of its parts, a solution to the contradiction—

—or, there is no contradiction to begin with; no conundrum, no paradox, only a straight clear path to travel down, fast and smooth and free—

Or, there is a contradiction, but it does not matter. Or, there is a contradiction, and it does not matter. It seems so paltry, now; and somewhere Liara is smiling because she is no longer afraid.

All things look small against the backdrop of eternity.

* * *

A/N: You know, I didn't think it would work at first, but then I got really into it and it turned out much better than I had expected. It's sort of a romance and sort of a coming-of-age, and Liara acts like a stuttering teenager because she sort of is a stuttering teenager? Anyway, let me know what you think, and leave me more pairings that you'd like to see.


	3. Frigate: Shadow

A/N: Garrus/FShepard, because I've gotten three requests for this pairing.

* * *

_(In which there is an explosion)_

"I have an idea," Shepard said brightly.

"Oh, no you don't, Commander," Garrus said, backing up just in case. "The last time you talked me into one of your ideas, I spent an hour in the sickbay with Doctor Chakwas lecturing me on ignoring proper safety protocol."

"It was just a scrape," she protested. "And, look, the cannons on the Mako work _much _better now. Anyway, this idea doesn't involve explosive."

He eyed her suspiciously. Garrus still wasn't entirely too sure about human facial expressions, but he thought that Shepard was looking entirely too innocent for her own good. Or his good, actually. "No explosives?" he asked, skeptical. "You promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," she said, putting her hand over that organ—which was, incidentally, not centered in her chest, one of the odder aspects of human physiology. "Well, not _die_, I guess—but no explosives, I promise."

Garrus relaxed fractionally. "And no toxins?"

"No toxins."

"And nothing that might get us into trouble with galaxy-spanning corporations and their hired guns?"

"—well—" Even to Garrus's untrained eye, Shepard was looking slightly guilty. "—it's only a little bit of hacking."

"…a little bit of hacking."

"For a good cause!"

"I don't want to know what this cause is, do I?" Garrus asked, resigned.

Shepard had widened her eyes in an attempt to look beseeching. "I just want to know what ExoGeni's up to."

"I _really_ didn't want to know that, Commander."

"Please, Garrus?" She couldn't order him; this was hardly an official task. "I'd ask Tali, but she's more of an engineer, and you're the best man—uh, alien—for this—you know all about hacking and security—"

"You're trying to flatter me, Commander."

There was a pause, while Shepard looked at him and Garrus wondered what in space she was thinking, and after a moment she said, hopefully: "Well, is it _working_?"

Garrus flicked his mandibles, indecisive. On the one hand, he liked Shepard, he really did. On the other hand—

Well, there wasn't really an other hand. Nothing would explode in his face, or try to eat him, or crush him under a few tons of scrap metal; this was fairly tame, for one of Shepard's bright ideas, and if ExoGeni came after them for this she would be the one taking the heat. Not that he was particularly happy about _that_, either. Still: "Fine," Garrus sighed. "But on one condition: we pull out if I suspect they've detected us."

"Yeah, sure," Shepard said. She was grinning now. "Thanks, Garrus. I owe you one."

—

Shepard had taken a computer from ExoGeni's offices back on Feros, but the company didn't appreciate them trying to pry into their secrets. They got as far as connecting to ExoGeni's secure network before the computer exploded. Garrus tossed it away and threw himself in front of Shepard. A chunk of metal and rapidly melting plastic hit him on the shoulder. Garrus cursed.

The rest of the machine was an unsalvageable wreck. Gently smoking bits of circuitry were scattered across the room.

"Only a little bit of hacking?" Garrus demanded, rubbing his shoulder. "Commander, you promised there wouldn't be any explosives."

"It wasn't an explosive," Shepard protested. "Are you all right?"

"Something hit my shoulder."

"Let me see," Shepard demanded.

"I have thick skin, Commander. I'm fine."

"Let me see it anyway," Shepard said, and she was looking stubborn so Garrus took his hand away and bent down to let her inspect his shoulder. Her fingers against his skin made him draw in a sharp, startled breath; she was warm, like sunlight, like Palaven—

"What color do turians turn when they bruise?"

Garrus snapped out of his thoughts. "Grayish-black. Why?"

"You have a bruise," Shepard informed him. Up close, her eyes were very wide and very clear. Garrus put his hand on her hip, because he was dizzy, and it was her turn to draw in a startled breath, and Garrus had only a moment to realize that the hip was Not A Place To Touch Human Females before Shepard was trying to kiss him.

"No—don't," Garrus gasped, his hands on her waist, claws against warm human skin and the feel of her fingers along his chest, "they're sharp, you'll cut yourself—"

"Right," Shepard said, and pressed her lips to his shoulder. Garrus made a sound that was like a strangled gasp, and they tumbled backward onto the bed, the weight of her against his limbs; she was warm warm _warm_ where he touched her and his claws left long tracks of red against her skin, but Shepard only arched up against him, panting and bright-eyed, and pulled him closer against her. She was trailing kisses down his neck, and Garrus was crooning, low and deep, the mating song humming through the air like a tremor—

Shepard. Shepard was his commander. Garrus was in bed with his commander, and she was a human, and they were about to—to—

Garrus flung himself away. It was rather more difficult than he'd imagined; the floor was hard, and very cold, and he landed on it with a painful thump. Shepard was looking at him, wide-eyed. Somehow her shirt had gone missing.

"Commander," he said.

Then he stopped, because he couldn't think of anything to add.

"Garrus," Shepard said, pulling the blankets up around her. "Um."

"I need to—ah—check on the Mako—"

"Right, yes," Shepard said, running her hands distractedly through her hair. "I should, um, get to my reports—"

"I'll—see you around, Commander," Garrus said, which seemed woefully inadequate, and escaped the room what he hoped was a modicum of dignity. The door slammed shut behind him. Garrus leaned against it, heavily, and let out a long breath. His heart was still pounding.

Through the door, he could hear Shepard let out a long stream of curses.

His commander. His human commander.

They lived on the same ship and he was never going to be able to look her in the eye again, Garrus thought gloomily.

* * *

_(In which there is therapy)_

Garrus wasn't quite sure whether he was with C-Sec, the Spectres, or the human Alliance, but they all had fairly comprehensive health plans and _one_ of them had to cover treatment for severe mental imbalances. The moment the Normandy returned to the Citadel, Garrus went to see a therapist.

"No, I don't have an appointment," he told the receptionist rather testily. "This is an emergency."

"I'll book you an appointment with Dr. Tisch," the human said, nodding. "He's had many years of experience, and he's the first one available. Is that all right?"

"I was just wondering—" Garrus noticed that he was fidgeting nervously and stopped himself at once. "I was just wondering if, uh, there was an asari I could talk to."

The receptionist raised her eyebrows. It was an expression Garrus had learned from Shepard, and it wasn't a friendly one; it spoke of impatience, and annoyance, and skepticism. "Oh?" she said frigidly. "I assure you that Dr. Tisch is more than qualified to take on your case, human or not."

Oh. She thought he didn't like humans. Ironic, seeing as Garrus was here for the opposite problem. "No!" he said, a little too loudly, and quickly lowered his voice when the other patients turned to look at him. "No," he said again, quieter. "Look, it isn't about that, I just had a question about interspecies relationships—"

"_Oh_," the woman said, in an entirely different tone of voice together. "My apologies. I'll book you an appointment with Dr. Laela immediately." She bent to her computer. "Could you return in, say, three hours?"

—

Doctor Seraneen Laela was very blue, with a pattern of silver spots across her forehead and down the sides of her cheeks. She stood to greet him when Garrus came in.

"Garrus Vakarian," she said, smiling. "I hear you're having relationship troubles?"

Garrus shook her hand. "Well," he said, "it's not exactly a relationship."

"Please, sit down," said the doctor. "And call me Seraneen, please. Tell me what's troubling you."

Garrus got as far as sitting down.

Then he put his face in his hands, and said, "Doctor, she has five fingers on each hand."

Seraneen was still smiling, but not she looked a little puzzled. "I'm sorry?"

"Five fingers," Garrus said, despondent. "That's ten total. That's just—that's just not _right_. What does she do with the four extra ones? She thinks in _tetradecimal_."

"Ah," Seraneen said, "I'm sure it comes naturally to her."

Garrus was barely listening. "She doesn't have a gizzard," he said. "Or mandibles. What am I thinking? She doesn't even have proper teeth. She eats the strangest things. Her blood isn't even blue!"

"And you find yourself attracted to her?" the doctor prompted, scribbling notes onto her clipboard. She nodded at him encouragingly.

"Yes," Garrus said. He was feeling rather fatalistic about it. "Did you know, once she bumped into a sharp corner and hurt herself? No exoskeleton. Her skin is as thin as—as—" He pondered this for a moment. "—as something really thin," Garrus said finally, giving up. "And she's the oddest color, too. And she doesn't have any clan markings. She has these—these _spots_ on her face, but I don't think they mean anything. Genetic heritage from her ancestors. That's all. Can you imagine that?"

"Funnily enough, yes," said Seraneen dryly, still writing.

"And she doesn't have any claws," Garrus said, gloomy.

He lapsed into silence. After a moment, Seraneen asked, "Are you done?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"Have you considered," Seraneen said, "that she might be having similar qualms about this relationships?"

"It isn't exactly a relationship," Garrus said again.

The doctor tapped her fingers thoughtfully against the edge of her desk. "Would you care to explain what it is?"

"Well," Garrus said, "I, uh, work with her. And I admire her very much."

"And you're attracted to her despite the—ah—physical differences?"

"Pretty much."

Seraneen set aside her clipboard and leaned forward. "You know," she said encouragingly, "if the physical aspect bothers you so much, you might want to avoid it altogether. Melding can be a purely mental exercise, and no less the intimate for it."

"The physical aspect _doesn't_ bother me," said Garrus gloomily. "That's what bothers me."

Then the rest of what Seraneen had said caught up with him. "Wait," he said, blinking. "Melding? No, this—she isn't an asari. She's human."

Seraneen dropped her pen.

To her credit, she recovered quickly enough after a moment or two of startled staring. "_Oh_," she said. "Ah—I see now. Yes, that makes sense."

"It does?" It certainly wasn't making any sense to him.

"Well, yes. I mean, a certain amount of romantic attachment between members of different species becomes avoidable after there has been sufficient interaction between them. This is hardly the first case—"

Garrus perked up. "It isn't?"

"Well, it's the first case I've heard of a turian attracted to a human," Seraneen admitted.

"Oh," Garrus said, deflating.

"But it was bound to happen sooner of later," she said quickly. "After all, there have been many cases of turian-asari relationships—perfectly normal, healthy ones, I assure you—and the asari resemble human females close enough for your attraction to be understandable."

"They do?"

"Well, aside from the skin color and certain arrangements of internal organs."

"And the fact that human females can't reproduce with any other species in existence," Garrus pointed out.

"True," Seraneen said. "But both human males and turian males are anatomically compatible with the asari, beyond the purely mental mind-meld they undergo, so it wouldn't be much of a stretch to assume that you and this human of yours could also engage in, ah, physical intimacy under certain conditions—" She broke off, catching the expression on his face. "What's wrong?"

"She has _ten fingers_," Garrus said.

"But you don't find it repulsive?"

"I don't know," Garrus said gloomily. "I'm crazy, aren't I? Can you call C-Sec and tell them to lock me up somewhere safe?"

"You aren't crazy." She sounded firm. "You're merely conflicted, and I think you need some time to accept that this paramour of yours is physically different from you—_considerably_ physically different from you—before you move forward with this relationship."

"I don't even know where it's supposed to _go_."

"The bedroom?" Seraneen suggested. Garrus stared. "Well, I'm assuming you were referring to your relationship. From what you're saying, it seems perfectly plausible. Unless she doesn't feel the same way about you?"

"I'm _very handsome_," Garrus said, offended.

"You might not look that way to a human," the doctor pointed out. "Has she shown any interest in you?"

_her fingers on his jaw and the way she had looked when he scraped his claws against her skin_

"Maybe," Garrus hedged.

"I'll take that as a yes," Seraneen said, sounding amused. "Perhaps you should discuss this with her? Tell her that you're conflicted about the relationship you're not having? Explain your feelings?"

"As though this isn't the most awkward moment of my life," Garrus said, lapsing into gloominess again, "you're suggesting I _repeat_ this experience, with the one woman in the universe who has the potential to make it _even more _awkward?"

"Yes, actually."

"Oh."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Seraneen said soothingly. "Here, I'll draw up a list of specialists you can speak to, and I'll give you my personal contact information in case you need to speak to me again—"

"If my _father_ found out," Garrus said, putting his head in his hands again, "he'd kill me."

"It might be a good idea not to tell him," Seraneen advised.

_

* * *

(n which there isn't really a conversation)_

The Normandy was quiet. Most of the crew was still on shore leave and wouldn't be back for hours. The corridors were deserted.

So of course Garrus ran into Shepard as she was coming out of Engineering. They stopped when they saw each other. There was a bit of silence. Garrus fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

"Uh—Commander," he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was staring at the floor. "Garrus," Shepard said.

Garrus shuffled a little awkwardly. "I thought you might be joining the crew for a drink, Commander."

"I thought you might be at C-Sec," Shepard muttered.

More silence.

Then: "Look, I talked to an asari," Shepard said.

Garrus was so surprised that he actually looked at her. Shepard was rapidly turning pink, but she pressed on regardless. "She said it should be fine as long as you don't bite me."

"Oh," Garrus said. That made sense. "Mine said I shouldn't tell my father."

"Right," Shepard said.

Now Garrus was staring at the floor and Shepard was staring at the ceiling. "So, uh, Commander," Garrus said. "Do you think we could, uh, try it again—?"

"I thought _I _was going to have to ask," Shepard said with relief.

"So are we—"

"Yes," Shepard said, and grabbed his arm with all five of her fingers. "Come on, before Joker gets back and starts asking questions."

* * *

A/N: I love alien POV's, I really do. I also love Garrus. But come on guys, it's not as though the Garrus/FShep fandom is languishing. How about something challenging? Something_ really_ weird.


	4. Frigate: Ghost

A/N: Shepard/Nihlus

* * *

They met on the Normandy, and Nihlus was the third—fourth—no, wait, the _seventh_—turian she'd ever seen up close; not often enough for him to stop being exotic, but often enough that Jane didn't catch herself staring at him like some of the newer recruits did. It was a little embarrassing, actually—here they were, the crème de la crème of the Alliance and all of humanity, and every time she turned around she had to remind Fredricks or Jenkins or some new tech that they really shouldn't be goggling at Nihlus like he was some circus freak. Nihlus, for his part, was fairly polite about it. He kept his mouth shut at the briefing, nodded towards the marines if he caught any of them staring, and made sure his guns were _really_ well-oiled.

The first time they spoke was when the Normandy picked up Nihlus on Epyrus colony. Anderson introduced them: "Nihlus, this is Commander Shepard of the Alliance and my second-in-command on the Normandy; Shepard, this is Nihlus, a Spectre for the Citadel Council."

"Pleased to meet you," she had said, and Nihlus had nodded at her and the two of them had shaken hands, right there on the boarding ramp in front of the curious crew.

"Likewise," said Nihlus. His voice was two-toned and strange, but at least he sounded friendly enough.

"Welcome aboard," Anderson had said, and that had been that.

The second time they spoke, the Normandy was several day-cycles out into space and Jane had just crashed into the turian as he came ducking out of the engineering bay and she was going in; "Sorry about that, Commander," Nihlus said, standing aside to make room for her. "Excuse me."

The third time they spoke was not an hour later, when Nihlus came strolling past her in what he clearly thought was a very nonchalant manner. Jane sighed and looked up from her diagnostics panel. She wasn't sure what the protocol for addressing a Spectre was, but she had been a tech long enough to know what to do with meddling superior officers. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked. "Or are you just here to check up on me?"

Nihlus looked at her. His mandibles twitched. After a moment, he said, "I hear both your parents are living on Earth as financial consultants to Morgan Galactic."

That was unexpected enough that Jane blinked. "You looked up my files?"

"As you mentioned," Nihlus said, "I'm here to check up on you."

"Really?"

"Yes." He came towards her, his dark eyes gleaming and alien. "Seven years of service with the Alliance fleet. You joined up straight out of college—recruited from some of the best engineers on the planet, with a specialty in hacking and weapons development. Psychological profiling recommended you for an officership, and the rest, as they say, is history."

"Yes, sir."

"No need for such formality," Nihlus said mildly. "I'm only here to observe at the moment. You show a great deal of promise, Shepard."

That was—well, slightly less unexpected, really. She'd been hearing some version or other of that phrase since she'd been in grade school. "You're too kind, sir."

He looked amused. "That's modest of you."

"Habit, sir. Brag about anything and the brass'll be on you in a flash. Next thing you know—boom. Extra chores."

"That sounds about right," Nihlus said dryly, and despite herself she was thinking, hey, he's got a sense of humor, not so shabby for a turian commando. "Well. Since you've already noticed that I've been keeping tabs on you, I might as well fill you in on why I'm here. But your captain should be there for that particular briefing. I'll notify him."

"Yes, sir," Jane said again, filled with raging indecision as to whether she should salute him or not. Nihlus merely nodded at her and left. She stared after him, wondering what in space a Spectre was keeping tabs on _her_ for.

—

Their fourth conversation was a little strange.

"Nihlus is here to assess you as a potential Spectre," Anderson announced unceremoniously, and left it at that. He left them, too, and Jane found herself standing in an almost-empty briefing room with a turian and a lot of silence.

"But there's never been a human Spectre," was all she could think of to say.

"Maybe it's time there was one," Nihlus said. "How'd you like to be the first?"

"Oh," she said. "_Yes_."

The expression on his face might have been a smile. "Good."

So all his talk of potential and promise hadn't been just talk. "Thank you."

"I think," Nihlus remarked, "that we'll get along very well together."

And Jane looked at him across the length of the communications room and thought that yes, they would get along well together, because he was straightforward and efficient and—and _deadly_, and she liked that—but he would be kind to her, and she liked that too. He was not so alien as to be unknowable.

—

Nihlus was a good mentor because someone had been a good mentor to him. Jane was the first human spectre and was in need of mentoring. They went on missions together and she had been right; he was straightforward, and efficient, and deadly, but he had a fondness for music and ancient epics, and she grew used to the way he smiled.

There was a planet. Hot and red and dusty, and a bandit king had to be taken down. They stood in his solarium afterwards. There were plants and falling water, and Nihlus touched his talons to her cheek and asked if she was all right; claws against skin, strange and intimate, and she would have kissed him if not for the razor-sharp edges of his mouth. But he knew what she'd been thinking anyway.

They both got very drunk later, and confessed to thinking things they shouldn't have, and there was talk of feelings and traditions and Jane had kissed him and cut her lip—

—

Jane could almost taste the blood on her tongue. "Nihlus," she said, the vestiges of the vision fading away in the bright glare of the Normandy's lights. "Do you like music?"

"Yes," he said, looking a little startled. "Very much so. How did you know?"

"You seemed like the type." She found that she was smiling. "I look forward to working with you, sir."

—

A gunshot, and her vision was shredded to pieces one bright morning on Eden Prime; Nihlus dead and Saren rogue and plots afoot everywhere, and the Normandy went sailing back to the citadel with a dead spectre in its cargo hold. It was silly to cry over some turian she had known for all of two weeks, so Jane did not cry, and she would hunt down Saren because he threatened the galaxy and it was the right thing to do.

_I hear it all started on Eden Prime_, the reporters would say—and friends and family and endless number of acquaintances—crowding close as she stepped off a boarding ramp or onto a dais or into a building. _When Saren Arterius killed that spectre_—

"Nihlus."

_Did you know him?_

"I met him," Jane would say, because it was the truth. "We were friendly." Because that was also the truth. They had not, quite, been friends. There hadn't been time for that; there hadn't been time for much of anything.

But it had been very vivid, that not-memory of a dusty planet and a glass-walled room. She dreamed about it sometimes. It might have been but wasn't—and really, the milk had been spilt (as the old saying went), so Jane cleaned up after herself and did not try to imagine the feel of a turian's skin beneath her fingertips or the way a two-toned voice might croon a song.

Sharp angles against her mouth and the taste of blood against her tongue; a remembrance of a might-have-been, and there was no need to examine too closely her reasons for hunting down Saren because it was simply something that had to be done.

* * *

A/N: Dude. DUDE. I didn't think of this one sooner because it's so WEIRD but then it really caught my imagination. Thanks to everyone for your reviews, they always make me happy inside (and outside!), and for all the great suggestions I've gotten. Sometimes something really weird just blindsides me, like this thing, and I have to write it even though I was totally going to do a Kaiden/Ash originally.


	5. Frigate: Requiem

A/N: You guys trust me, right?

(...deep breath...) Saren/Shepard.

* * *

**Revelations****:** _dies irae, dies illa_

The vision was full of blood.

Cities crumbled. Planets burned. Billions and billions of life-forms, dead in a flash, and there was screaming echoing echoing _echoing_ in his head that would not go away—

_They were organics_, Sovereign hissed. _Unfit. Unclean. Why do you still question? You have work to do._

Yes. Work. Without the cipher the vision was all but useless. Saren stumbled to his feet, pushing the screaming to the back of his mind with an effort. He had to find the cipher.

"Benezia!" he growled, toggling the comm. "Get up here. Now!"

Her voice came floating back through Sovereign's speakers, cool and poised and a trifle irritated. "No need to shout," Benezia said. She sounded as though she might be rolling her eyes. "I'm on my way."

Saren growled again and flung himself into a chair. Impertinent wench. She would deserve whatever was coming to _her_, and more. An asari Matriarch; so self-important, so _presumptuous_, yet another organic construct who would not recognize her place in the galaxy—

That was Sovereign again. He raised his head and pushed the intrusive thoughts to the back of his mind as Benezia came striding through the doors. "The cipher," he snapped at her. Their work should be almost done. "I need your—"

"There is a problem," Benezia said.

Problems. Delays and delays and more delays—worthless organics, inept, incompetent—"_What_?" Saren demanded.

"The beacon," Benezia said. "One of the humans may have—used it."

White-hot rage. The world went blank for a moment, the strength of Sovereign's fury roaring through his mind (—_no no NOOO—_) and Saren was vaguely aware of movement and shattering glass (—_problems delays worthless organics_—) and a sharp, searing pain all up his arm as he slammed a fist into a wall (—_why won't they DIE_—) and came shuddering back into himself, panting, the dark echoes of the Reaper's anger staining his mind like blood.

"This human must be eliminated," he hissed, Benezia's face suddenly between his talons and centimeters away from his jaws. "Destroy him. Destroy his ship."

She didn't even blink. "Her," Benezia said, unflinching. "A human female. Serving under Captain Anderson of the _Normandy_, an Alliance ship—"

"I know his allegiances," Saren growled, letting go of her.

"Do you want him dead, too?"

"No. Too much trouble with the Council." He turned away. "Just kill the female."

—

**Prophets**** 1.1:** _libera me (__de morte aeterna)_

The human escaped to Citadel space before his geth assassins could shoot her between the eyes, and somehow Anderson managed to convince the Council that Saren required a hearing for his actions. Sovereign, still seething, gave him a week to settle matters.

A week. A week to answer accusations from some human upstart fresh off the colonies who wouldn't know true power if it were handed to her on a silver platter. It was almost too much time, but Saren merely sneered and took it; there was no arguing with Sovereign, not when it wanted him to plot and plan and have every detail under control.

The machines—they _thought_ like machines—hated uncertainty, unknown variables, unquantifiable forms. Saren contacted his lawyers and covered his tracks, and when the Council summoned him he was ready with an excuse and enough accusations to bury the humans for a long, long, while; he was still a Spectre, after all, and the humans hadn't been terribly subtle about their ambition. He would play all this off as another attempt for them to grab power, and the Council would believe him, and Saren could get back to destroying the galaxy as was Sovereign's will.

Strange. He never thought of it as destroying the galaxy when he was _on_ Sovereign. It was always a cleansing then, or a reaping, or a scourge—

"I have other matters to attend to," Saren said abruptly, rising to his feet. "Contact me if you have further questions."

The asari lawyer he had retained blinked at him in surprise. "Certainly," she said. "I think that's all for the moment—I'll file all the necessary petitions, of course—"

"Of course," Saren snapped at her, and walked out.

A week. A week to get in touch with his contacts and clean up after the geth. A week away from Sovereign. It was almost a relief to go back to the Citadel and snap at the C-Sec officers poking their claws into his files, to sit about in seedy bars and growl at thugs who approached too close, to be alone with his thoughts and not have Sovereign's will raging at him all the while.

The Reaper would have called it doubt. It didn't matter. He had to be careful with his thoughts, on Sovereign. He had to be careful with everything. Saren bared his teeth in a snarl and tried to remember what he was working for.

Oh yes. The extinction of all organic life.

But some would be saved and he would pick the chosen. Out of habit, he did not wonder if it was enough.

—

**Saints 1.1: **_ignis divine_

Saren left the Citadel a few days before the hearing was to begin; his week was up, after all, and in any case he was a Spectre and far too important to be loitering about, waiting for something so trivial as a hearing brought against him by some _human_. If any species deserved to die first, it would be the humans; _arrogant, foolish_, came Sovereign's thoughts, _they must all die in the Reaping, all these organics_—_aberrations, all of them—_

"Anderson will try to stop us," Saren warned.

_Foolish. Nothing can stop us._

Unquantifiable forms. Anderson wasn't one of them. Saren knew Anderson. He knew what the human would do, how the human would react—_paltry thing_, Sovereign sneered, _what can he accomplish?_—and "Yes," Saren said, from the Reaper's communications room as he waited for the hearing to begin. "But if he knew, he would try."

A burst of irritation, and then a burst of static as the holograms crackled into life around him. _Then do your duty and discredit him_, the Reaper snapped, and coiled away from Saren's mind as the hearing began.

Unquantifiable forms: Anderson wasn't one of them, but Shepard was.

Commander Jane Shepard of the Alliance fleet. The human female who had used the beacon. He had almost forgotten about her after she had failed to die—but here she was now, the hologram frail and hollow, and the woman was staring up at him narrow-eyed through the real-time connection the Council had set up.

"Saren Arterius," Shepard said. "You were on Eden Prime."

"Must I listen to these unfounded accusations?" Saren demanded, turning to face the council. The turian councilor looked sympathetic, the asari looked worried, and the salarian—as always—looked bored. "I have business to conduct elsewhere, and these _humans_ come here bringing no proof."

A man stepped forward. "There were witnesses."

"Captain Anderson," Saren drawled. "Somehow I knew you would be involved. _One_ witness, according to the report, and he was half-asleep and hiding behind crates. Hardly someone I would consider trustworthy, councilors, even if this accusation had not been brought by humans. Why would _I_ attack Eden Prime?"

"You hate humanity," Shepard said, and all of a sudden her eyes were blazing. It was a wonder she had survived the beacon, with that sort of defiance.

"With _good reason_," he retorted, and the asari councilor held up her hands and snapped out "_Enough!_" before Saren could say more.

"The charges are dismissed," she added, tapping at her keyboard. "There is insufficient evidence linking Saren Arterius to the incident at Eden Prime."

"Return if you find any actual _proof_," the turian councilor said. His mandibles were twitching impatiently. "We are not here to indulge your idle speculations, Ambassador Udina. Saren, you are dismissed."

"Thank you, Councilors," Saren said, and Sovereign terminated the connection.

He could feel Shepard watching him as her hologram faded. Time and space and planets between them, and still she looked ready to hunt him down and cut his throat. "The human," Saren said aloud. "Shepard, the one who used the beacon. She's going to be trouble."

Sovereign hissed, displeased, and fury blazed through Saren's mind to the edge of pain. _The beacon should have killed her_, Sovereign said. _Your geth should have killed her. And yet she lives—_

"She will die," Saren ground out.

_Make sure of it_, the Reaper said, drawing its thoughts back enough for Saren to breathe.

—

**Revelations****:** _dies tribulationis et angustiae_

He dreamed about her—or maybe they were both having the same vision—because it was bloody, chaotic, and there was screaming in the darkness between the stars. But Shepard was there, liquid fire in her eyes when she looked at him; _you_, she said, _you're in my dream_.

_You're in mine_, Saren snapped at her, as around them suns burned out and planets died.

_Do you hear the screaming_, Shepard said, and Saren said, _always._

—

**Prophets 2.1:**_ libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum_

The vision was fragmented—a damaged beacon, too broken to be very useful, and even if they had the cipher they might be searching between star systems for centuries for a relay that had drifted off course. Centuries, Sovereign might have had; but he had a schedule and some unfathomable deadline was approaching and they needed to find the Conduit. Snarling, Saren sent the geth forces off to Therum and Antibaar and Quana to look for more beacons. They, at least, were obedient; machines, computers, logical and rational and predictable with no unknowns—but aberrations nonetheless, to have been created by mere organics, they too would have to be destroyed when the Reaping came—

Sovereign again. Saren threw off the foreign thoughts with a grimace. Useless, anyway, when he couldn't understand the vision. Benezia lectured on about cultural context and ingrained behaviors and physiological differences until Saren wanted to strangle her, but it was all useless.

"I need a cipher," he snapped at her finally. "Go find me some way of downloading one."

"Downloading," Benezia said, her lip curling faintly. "You sound like one of those geth."

Saren growled at her. She went. She found him the Thorian.

—

**Saints 2.1****:** _o quam sancta, quam serena_

The news that he had been found culpable for Eden Prime—and that his Spectre status had been revoked—came as they were on their way to Feros. It was unpleasant but hardly unexpected, but Saren was furious anyway.

"They're sending a Spectre after you," Benezia said, almost idly. "The first human Spectre. Inducted just to hunt you down."

"Anderson," Saren growled.

"Shepard," Benezia corrected. "Surely you remember her?"

That human commander who had used the beacon. That woman with the fiery eyes. Of course he remembered her. The reports came trickling in, a little slowly while they were in transit, and Saren would have broken things if it hadn't meant looking like a fool in front of Matriarch Benezia and her asari and the geth.

And Sovereign. He could never forget Sovereign.

Shepard. She had killed the assassins he had sent after her. She had burrowed her way into a closed C-Sec investigation and found proof that satisfied the council. Saren wanted her dead and instead she was coming after him—unknown, unquantifiable, a prototype stealth ship at her command and the fragments of a Prothean vision in her mind.

She was coming after him. Saren hacked into the Alliance files and snarled at the image of her that came up—it was flat, gray and lifeless, nothing like the figure he remembered from his dream. No matter. If _she_ were following _him_ then he had traps to lay.

—

**Prophets**** 2.2:** _de pœnis inferni et de profundo lacu_

Sovereign touched down on Zhu's Hope, and when Saren disembarked it was with Matriarch Benezia and two of her acolytes in tow. "Species 37," she told him. "One of Exo-Geni's classified projects. The Thorian is over fifty thousand years old, and this used to be a Prothean city."

"Good," Saren said, and shouldered his way past the surprisingly docile human colonists. They didn't even flinch at the sight of the geth contingent that flanked him. Mind-controlling spores, the files had said; doubtless the Thorian was eager for more prey.

They went down the winding ruins into the Thorian's lair. It was a massive thing; vaguely plant-like, with tentacles everywhere and a pulsating center like a beating heart. Saren eyed it. The center was hung, suspended, over a gaping chasm. If the tentacles holding it to the building could be cut away—

Later. There were three dropships waiting in orbit for that purpose.

"Shiala, Illris," Benezia said. "One of you—"

"Matriarch," the asari Shiala said. "I will serve."

Benezia nodded. Shiala stepped forward and laid her hands against the nearest tentacle, her eyes filling up with inky blackness as joined with the Thorian.

When she spoke again, her voice was strange.

"The—old growth—welcomes you," she said, her voice rasping. The Thorian's center pulsed, as though in excitement. "What is it that you seek?"

"Information," Saren said. "I want information on the Protheans—the ones who built this city fifty thousand years ago. Their language, their culture, their physiology—everything."

Shiala hissed, her face twitching. "And what do you offer me, meat-thing?"

"This asari that contacts you is a powerful biotic," he said. "Keep her."

"Saren," said Benezia, and he snapped at her for silence.

"Very well," the Thorian said through Shiala's mouth, and the asari's body stretched out one arm and beckoned him closer.

And then the cipher was his.

Back on Sovereign and back in orbit, Saren ordered the dropships to land. "Aim for the tentacles," he told the geth. "Kill it. Destroy the colony."

"_Saren_," said Benezia, her mouth twisting unpleasantly.

"Shepard's already accessed the message," he snarled at her. "She can't have the cipher, too. Get to Noveria. I need the location of the Mu Relay."

Benezia slammed the door as she left, the first time she had ever shown a trace of temper. _Aberration, _Sovereign said, cold. _They will die. They will all die. She sees this and still she questions. I will tolerate no more of these doubts._

No. Of course not. The Reaper was right. They were certain and their course was set and if there was screaming in Saren's mind, Sovereign's voice would drown it out. Always.

—

**Revelations:** _dies calamitatis et miseriae _

The screaming was words now, with the cipher—a stuttering cry for help, a stifled warning, sent across the galaxy from planet to planet and far too late to stop the Reapers. _Go away_, Saren snapped at Shepard, who had appeared again, her presence in his dreaming as unwelcome as her intrusion in his plans while he was awake. _What are you doing here?_

She ignored him. _All this_, she said. _What does this mean?_

_It means you're going to die_, he told her, a little bitter.

_We all die. Life dies. It comes back_.

_Then you shouldn't be fighting the cycle_, Saren said, and together they walked between the dying stars as howling monstrosities stretched out at them from the far reaches of dark space.

—

**Saints 2.2:** _quam benigna, quam amoena_

Good news and bad.

The geth had found a working beacon. Shepard had found the geth.

She had been to Feros and to Therum, tracking their movements just as Saren had planned, but what he had not planned was that she would escape his traps—kill the krogan battlemaster he had hired, destroy the colossi the geth had built, rescue Zhu's Hope and unearth Shiala and download the cipher herself.

She had the cipher. She had the vision. She had an asari—a Prothean expert, Benezia's daughter—who could decode both.

Fiery-eyed and tenacious. Saren could almost admire her.

—

**Prophets**** 2.3:** _l__ibera eas de ore leonis_

_You said you would stop her._

"I—"

He had underestimated her. This Shepard was human but she was a Spectre, and the Council did not take such things lightly, and Sovereign's fury was blazing through his mind. _No more miscalculations_, the Reaper seethed. _She cannot stop this. She must not, or your punishment will be terrible. _

"She won't," Saren growled, his claws digging into his thighs against the Reaper's rage. "She's too late, too far behind. We are close to the Conduit."

Sovereign subsided. _Make sure of it_, it warned, and Saren could breathe again.

With the cipher the vision was understandable; with an undamaged beacon the vision would be whole. A star system, a mass relay, a skipping in the weave of time and space and then—

The communications system opened. Messages came filtering through. "Take the beacon to Virmire," he ordered the geth. "Be _careful_ with it."

And: "Benezia."

"Saren." Her voice came crackling across the connection, cool as ever. "I have the coordinates. Transmitting now."

"Good," he said. In his mind was a human with blazing eyes; she dogged his steps like a persistent shadow and intruded into his dreams. He had underestimated her, but he would not do so again. "Shepard's headed for you. Wait for her and kill her. Kill everyone with her. Make sure they die."

_My daughter might be there_, Benezia didn't say. Instead: "She's proven difficult to eliminate this far," Benezia said, which might have been a questioning but was not precisely so. Saren snarled in impatience.

"She dies, or you do," he snapped, and terminated the connection.

—

**Revelations****:** _dies tenebrarum et caliginis, dies nebulae et turbinis_

The end of the world. Saren was looking for a relay but instead he found Shepard.

_Aren't you afraid? _she asked.

_You again_, Saren said, almost resigned now. _Go home, human. Give up. You can't stop this_.

_But aren't you afraid? _she persisted. _It's dark and empty and the Reapers want you dead_.

He flicked his mandibles. A storm gathered on the horizon, drew closer, rained down fire from the skies. Voices screamed in a language eons gone. _No point in fear. It will happen. It must._

_Are you sure?_

Doubt. He couldn't afford doubt. _Yes_, Saren snapped at her. _I have to be._

_I don't think you are_, Shepard said, and this was just a dream so Saren could only growl at her for her impertinence.

—

**Prophets 2.4:** _ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum (__l__ibera eas)_

He had underestimated her, but he would not do so again. Who was this—this _human_—to come in and ruin his plans? The arrogance—the presumption—some upstart species that hadn't even been in space a century and already thought they deserved embassies and Council seats and considered themselves the equal of the great powers.

She deserved to die. They all deserved to die. Organic aberrations—presumptuous, arrogant—to think that she would stop _him_, to think that she would even dare to try—

Saren growled and shook his head to clear it. The line between his thoughts and Sovereign's was growing thin. Saren did not hate all organic life—only Shepard—but it was the same feeling, white-hot and bitter acrid, and for one long moment Saren wondered if he was losing himself in the blurring.

He was not one of the indoctrinated. He had free will. Sovereign _needed _his free will, or else he would be useless as an agent. Saren was no mindless thrall—he would not be—he would rather die with the rest in the Reaping—

No matter. Saren shoved the thoughts away. The Mu Relay was in the Terminus Systems; not even ex-Spectres were welcome there. He had work to do if the relay was to be found.

—

**Saints 2.3:** _o castitatis lilium_

Shepard escaped from Noveria with Benezia dead and the rachni queen freed; a Matriarch up against a Spectre was a close thing, but not so close that Saren was surprised, and he grudgingly gave Shepard his respect.

_Forget her_, Sovereign hissed in his mind. _We are close to the Conduit. Go to Virmire. Finish the vision_.

Yes. Virmire. "I'll deal with her myself," Saren said. "She'll follow the geth to Virmire, and I will kill her personally."

_You are obsessed with this human_, Sovereign said, displeased. _Forget her. Nothing can stop us now. We have the relay and the beacon. Now we move._

No room for doubt. No place for questioning their success. Saren closed his eyes and wondered at Shepard's certainty. Why did she try? The Reaping was coming. Did she really think that she could stop it?

_Yes_, Shepard said.

Saren opened his eyes again, annoyed. He wasn't even dreaming and she was haunting him.

—

**Revelations****:** _dies tubae et clangoris (super civitates munitas et super angulos excelsos)_

The beacon was waiting for them when they touched down on Virmire. A vision, complete—terribly comprehensible, and in Saren's mind there was no break in the screaming now as the death cries echoed back and forth across a galaxy that had been gone for fifty thousand years.

What would Shepard make of it, he wondered, and then remembered that he couldn't let her get to the beacon.

The screaming continued beyond the confines of his mind. Saren opened his eyes and discovered that the base was under attack.

The geth messenger was chittering nervously at him about salarian infiltrators, but Saren knew it had to be Shepard. "Get out of my sight," he snapped, pulling on his armor with vicious jerks. "Get the defenses up. Pin them down!"

It scrambled away, the headlight blinking. Saren snarled again, grabbed his weapons, and stalked up to the battlements. A frontal assault by salarian infiltrators; of course Shepard was behind it, they would never try anything like this otherwise. She had taken down his assassins in close-range combat and sniped at Benezia's commandos—doubtless she thought the _salarians_ would make a good assault force.

Where _was_ she?

Saren growled in frustration and summoned his flier. Shepard had come to him. He _would_ find her. He would kill her. The flier shuddered beneath his feet as it rose up; Virmire's sandy beaches sprawled out beneath him, clear blue water and green palms and sheer cliffs everywhere, and salarians were hiding behind the outer bulwarks as they sniped at his geth. Useless AIs—they wandered about aimlessly if they were alone, even the newer ones that had been constructed with much more processing power—

"Defend the towers," he barked out over the communications channel. Shepard would have brought that prototype ship of hers; it would be a poor idea to let it land. "Fall back to the secondary defenses and bombard them with grenades—"

Messages came filtering in through his hardsuit. "They're _salarians_," he snarled back. "None of them are going to have any heavy armor. Stay low and out of sight before they can try their hacking." He hoisted his sniper rifle to his shoulder, his mandibles flicking with anticipation. Three groups of salarians leading the frontal assault—and yes, there was an Alliance signature registering on his scanner—

He brought the flier in closer and took aim.

It wasn't Shepard.

It was some other human laying siege to his command tower. Some human male, ducking behind a concrete barricade beneath a barrage of artillery, and it didn't even take Sovereign's approach for Saren to realize he had been tricked.

Shepard wasn't here. She wasn't the one with the salarians. She was back at the base, and she had accessed the beacon, and there was a distant explosion as the other AA tower went down.

A flicker of rage, entirely his own, shuddered through his battle-calm. He would kill her. He would see them all dead. Saren swung his flier around at a dangerous angle, shouting out orders to the geth below, and he was getting messages about another ship approaching and a nuclear detonator—

She was at the heart of his base. She was at the heart of his base and she would destroy it all in some grand delusion that she could stop the Reaping.

He would kill her for making him doubt.

—

**Saints**** 3.1:** _flos carmeli, vitis florigera, splendor coeli_

In person, Shepard was nothing like he had expected, and everything.

She fired on him the moment he came within range. The shots bounced harmlessly off his shields, and he stepped off the flier and into the swirling water of the breeding grounds and Shepard backed away and fired again. She looked frail as a hologram projection. She looked like she wanted to kill him.

Saren stopped. Their eyes met across the water, and it might well have been fire and dying planets around them rather than the breeding grounds of his base. Shepard lowered her pistol, almost imperceptibly, and Saren doubted that even she had noticed the movement.

"An impressive diversion," he called out to her. "My geth were utterly convinced the salarians were the real threat."

"Thank you," Shepard said, sounding sardonic even through the translation protocols. "I was impressed myself."

"And all for nothing. You will die here."

And instead of shooting at him again Shepard tilted up her chin and demanded, "Why are you doing this, Saren?"

Questions. Always questions from her, doubts and defiance and uncertainty, and Saren wanted to kill her for asking things he did not dare. "You have no idea what's at stake here," he growled at her. "You have no idea what you want to disrupt. Do you _dare_ meddle? You saw the vision. The Protheans defied and they were destroyed utterly. Why do you _still resist_?"

"Why do you _help_?" Shepard demanded, sounding just as furious as he.

Because he was saving what could be saved. "The Protheans defied," he snapped. "Trillions died. They should have bowed down before the Reapers! You mire yourself in revolution over petty freedoms—you fight when you know you cannot win—but _submit_, prove ourselves useful, and a few will be spared—"

"You think they'll keep their promises," Shepard said, sounding a little astonished and not at all afraid. "Why would they? You've been on Sovereign too long. It's indoctrinated you."

No. He was too useful to be indoctrinated. He was too capable; Sovereign _needed _him—

"It's using you," Shepard said. "It'll throw you away the moment it doesn't need you anymore, because that's logical, isn't it? Think about it. If you still can."

No. No. He had built this facility to protect himself. He could still—still question—

"You saw the vision," he said again. "It cannot be denied. This is our only hope."

"No," Shepard said, fiery and defiant. "Join me. Help me stop Sovereign and we can save _everything_."

And for one long, long moment he looked at her and almost said yes.

Then Sovereign's voice came crackling over the communications channel. "Kill her," the Reaper ordered.

—

**Prophets**** 3.1:** _salva me, fons pietatis_

It was not a long battle.

A fuel tank exploded. Shepard was knocked off her feet; Saren was not, and in moments he closed in on her and his talons were around her throat and he was lifting her clear of the water. Shepard was gasping for breath. He had her—he finally had her, and it was not nearly as satisfying as he had thought it might be—

An alarm went off.

His grip loosened in surprise, just a fraction, and Shepard punched him across the jaw.

It shouldn't have worked but did. Saren was more startled than anything else; he dropped her, and Shepard went scrambling away through the water with her pistol in her hand and her eyes ablaze as though they were in a dream together, and behind her the siren was blaring out a warning that the detonator was about to go off.

No time to finish the fight. Sovereign was already taking off. The flier nudged at his calves, impatiently, and Saren stepped on as the Alliance ship came swooping down for Shepard and her crew.

She still had her pistol out.

Their eyes caught. Water and mist and artillery fire—or cities burning and echoing screams—or dying suns and the spaces between worlds and dark-tendriled things reaching out at them from beyond the edge of the stars—

A clear shot, Saren thought. Go on, take it.

She didn't fire.

Kill me. Defy the Reapers.

She didn't fire.

Save the galaxy, Shepard.

She tore her eyes away and did not fire; and then Saren was rising up into Sovereign's open maw with a throbbing deep in his chest that was something like regret and something like loss and the air echoed with the silence of a shot that wasn't.

—

**Revelations: **_lacrimosa dies illa_

They shared no more visions. Sovereign caught the edge of his uncertainty and turned it aside, and for the price of his doubt Saren allowed himself to be implanted with the Reaper's presence so that there would be no more questions in the moment of victory; all on the way to Ilos he dreamed, alone, of death and fire and a Reaping that was the end of a world.

_Aren't you afraid? _she had asked. _It's dark and empty and the Reapers want you dead_.

But it hadn't been empty when she had been there.

—

**Prophets**** 3.2:** _ne perenni cremer igne_

Ilos was haunted. The planet was uncomfortably damp for a turian and all around the edges of the overgrown buildings there were ghosts—though these, at least, were silent and did no screaming. The Conduit's signal was faint but steady and Saren pushed his way through the ghosts until he found a path.

He wasn't even surprised when he heard the roar of a ship overhead. "Shepard," he growled.

_Forget her. _Sovereign was a constant presence in his mind now. _Get to the Conduit_.

"Seal the doors," he ordered the geth. "Stop her if she comes this way."

Impatience. Intensity to the point of pain. _The Conduit!_

Saren gritted his teeth and moved. Beneath his skin, the cybernetics hummed, eager, and Saren clawed desperately to keep his thoughts but it was a losing battle.

He remembered emerging from the Conduit.

Suddenly they were in the Citadel again, geth dropships everywhere and alarms ringing out from C-Sec, and Sovereign was distracted enough to pull away from Saren's mind for the barest of moments.

_Get to the tower_, it hissed. _Open the relay._

Saren went.

The geth troopers went ahead, and what little resistance the disorganized security of the Citadel put up was quickly dispatched—_organics, aberrations_—and hate was roaring up in him for all these things that stood in his way. Months—years—delays and more delays because these organic _keepers_ would not obey—and the Reapers had _created _them to serve—

How much sooner it could have had access to the citadel, if the keepers had not evolved—organic, unreliable—they must all be destroyed—

Saren didn't realize that he was shooting at the keepers until one of them exploded all over him. The cybernetics. His head was pounding and the Presidium elevator was too slow to satisfy Sovereign's impatience.

He hated—there would be nothing left—it was time, everything would die, these organics would all die as was their place—

The Conduit flashed.

Shepard.

She had followed them—the _audacity_—the presumption, the arrogance, that this organic _thing_ still tried and tried and tried to stop the Reapers when their victory was inevitable—

Saren broke out onto the top of the Citadel Tower, gasping, and Sovereign was raging in his mind for control. But Sovereign was surprised at Shepard's appearance and Saren was not. For a moment his mind was clear.

_The controls, _Sovereign seethed._ Give me access_.

—and there was screaming but this time it rang in his ears—

He brought up the Citadel systems and opened the channels to the Reaper. It descended, the Wards closing on around them, and beyond that Saren could see faint flashes of light and fire as the Citadel fleets came moving in too late against the geth. "Shepard," he said out loud. "She will—"

_She will not. Make sure of it_.

And then he was alone in his mind as Sovereign drew away to open up the Citadel.

Shepard was on the elevator. He shut it down.

It wouldn't stop her for long. Saren drew out his weapons and ordered the geth troopers into position. She would be here soon enough; nothing stopped her for long, it seemed.

—

**Saints 3.2:** _virgo puerperal, singularis_

He rose to greet her when she approached; no need to be rude now, after all, when one of them was going to die and the world was about to end. "Shepard," he said. "Good of you to make it."

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world," she said, stopping.

"You're too late," he told her, Sovereign's certainty echoing faintly in his mind. "In a few minutes Sovereign will have full control. You can't stop this. Nothing can stop this."

"I could if you'd get out of the way."

"No." She was standing close enough that Saren could see the streaks of ash on her armor. Standing behind her were her two silent squadmates, weapons out and wary, and above them Sovereign was making its slow descent—but there was fire around then, everywhere, and the two of them were alone again in what might have been a dream. "You bested me on Virmire, I'll admit. But I've improved since then. I've been upgraded."

"You let Sovereign implant you?" Shepard demanded. "Are you insane?"

The cybernetics. "I faltered," Saren said. "I almost believed you, on Virmire. I needed to strengthen my resolve."

"You almost believed me," Shepard said, as though _that_ had been the important part. "Believe me now. Sovereign's using you. You've been indoctrinated."

No. No. He couldn't be. "It needs me," Saren growled. "There _is_ a place for organics in the new order—organics with free will, men and women of action—"

"Slaves," Shepard said. "If they decide to let any live at all."

Still she defied. "How can you deny the visions?" he demanded. "They'll destroy everything. You know they can—this is our only chance, Shepard, our only chance to save anything." And, on impulse: "Join me. The Reapers would find you useful. They would spare you."

"No," she said. "They won't spare anyone. Think like a machine, Saren. Would you let any organics live after you were through with this Reaping?"

Sovereign was a faint hum in his cybernetics, distant and distracted, and Saren's head was pounding with the force of too many words. "We can't stand against them," he said, his talons on his pistol and his mind blurring. "They can't be stopped."

"They can," Shepard said. "Sovereign hasn't won yet. You saw the visions, too. It doesn't have to happen. Help me stop them."

Fire and screaming and the darkness between the stars—how long had they been talking? Seconds? Days? "I can't," Saren said. "It's too late."

"You were a Spectre once," Shepard told him. "You worked to save the galaxy. Do you remember?"

Spectre. He had meant to stop things like this. He had meant to protect and serve, and Sovereign was distant in his mind but drawing ever closer at the stirrings of his doubt.

"Yes," Saren said. "I remember."

—

**Prophets**** 3.3:** _ne me perdas illa die_

He had called them petty freedoms once. He was wrong. They weren't petty.

The main control cluster was near the base of his skull, and Shepard was watching him, her eyes ablaze, and around them cities crumbled and planets died and screaming echoed between the stars—but the vision wasn't empty now, and Saren wasn't afraid, though the steel of his pistol was icy-cold beneath his jaw.

_Thank you, Shepard._

—

**Revelations: **_dona eis requiem_

The world went dark.

And, at last, the screaming stopped.

* * *

A/N: Please let me know what you think! This is some of the strangest stuff I've done and I would really love feedback.

I sort of imagined the Saint as a soprano, the Prophet as a tenor, and the Revelations bits sung with a really ominous bass chorus, sort of like a mass. The Latin is from various versions of the _Dies Irae_, the _Libera Me_, the _Offertory_, and other movements from the Requiem Mass (hence the title!), as well as _Lilium_ and _Flos Carmeli_ for the Saints sections; apologies for the fairly heavy-handed symbolism, though it was just so fitting that I couldn't resist. I really hope this fic worked out like I wanted it to.


	6. Frigate: Shanxi

A/N: Ashley/Garrus. Is it just me or are these things getting longer?

**

* * *

Part I**

It started, as many things did, with a gunshot and a kiss.

The gunshot came as they went rushing into the medical clinic, and Ashley thought for one bewildered moment that Shepard had fired without warning before realizing that the shot had come from that turian _over there_ and oh, yes, now they were in the middle of a firefight and a civilian was cowering in a corner.

"Thanks," the turian said afterward, brushing off his pistol though nothing particularly out of the ordinary had happened. "Shepard, right? Good timing; you let me nail that bastard when he was distracted."

"Glad to be of service," Shepard said dryly. "Dr. Michel. You all right?"

"Yes, thank you—"

And then, sometime between Ashley putting away her shotgun and the good doctor giving them directions to Flux's nightclub, Ashley discovered that the turian had been invited to join their team.

—

After that, they picked up aliens at an alarming rate. A turian, a krogan, a quarian; then Shepard was suddenly working for the Citadel Council, and the Normandy was speeding off to God-knows-where to pick up some asari, and really, it was all getting a bit ridiculous.

"No offense, skipper," Ashley said, "but this ship is starting to look like a propaganda poster for inter-species unity."

Shepard just laughed. "Hey," he said. "Cut me some slack, will you? The first human Spectre has to play nice with the other races."

"Yeah, but come on, this is a prototype Alliance ship and you're just letting them wander around?"

"Now you sound like Udina."

Ashley put a hand to her heart, as though grievously wounded. "Ouch, sir. Ouch."

"Sorry, sorry," Shepard said, grinning. "Come on, it's not all bad, is it? Everyone down in engineering loves Tali, and Garrus is doing wonders for the Mako—"

"And the krogan?"

"Well, all right," Shepard admitted. "Wrex just stands around being grumpy. But he's _very_ _good_ at it."

Ashley was grinning despite herself. "Yes, sir."

"But hey, are you going to have a problem with this? Because if you are, I need to know now."

And give up the best thing that had happened to her since she'd made Chief? No freaking way. "No, sir," Ash said, saluting. "You're the captain. You tell me to jump, I ask how high; you tell me to kiss a turian, I ask which cheek—"

Shepard was laughing again. "Left," he said, mostly teasing but a little bit a dare.

Ashley saluted again. "Sure thing, skipper," she said, and strode off into the Normandy's main garage. Shepard, Ashley was amused to note, trailed behind her; he looked as though he couldn't decide whether he should be laughing, or horrified, or running upstairs to grab a camera.

Garrus was bent over the Mako. Ash made a beeline for him; the turian straightened up as they approached, looking rather puzzled, and from behind her Shepard's sense of honor finally got the better of his devilry.

"Um, Ash, you don't have to do this—"

Uh-uh. No way she was going to back down now, not when the challenge had already been thrown out. "Orders are orders, sir," Ashley said.

"Williams," Garrus said, looking between her and Shepard. His mandibles flickered. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," she told him. "Stand still."

Garrus blinked. Ashley stretched up—the turian was maybe six feet, just a few inches taller than her—and kissed him on the cheek.

His skin was rough, like sun-warmed stone. Garrus jerked in surprise as she touched him; the edge of his mandible hit her mouth, and when Ashley pulled away her lower lip was bleeding, and Garrus was staring at her.

"Right," she said, pressing her fingers to the cut. "Freaking _ow_."

"You're bleeding," Garrus said. Helpfully.

"Shit," Shepard said, his hands on her shoulders as he turned her around to face him. He peered at her. "I'm so sorry, Ash, I had no idea that would happen."

"Dangers of military life, sir," Ashley said jokingly, wiping at her mouth with the edge of her sleeve. It came away bloody; Shepard was looking guilty, and Garrus—

Well, she couldn't really tell. Ash wasn't exactly an expert on turian facial expressions.

"You should go see Dr. Chakwas," Shepard was saying. "Get some medi-gel—"

"Right—"

"You'll be okay?"

Shepard looked so worried that Ashley couldn't help but laugh. "I think I'll pull through, sir."

"I'm _really_ sorry," Shepard said again, and released her. Ashley glanced past him. Garrus was still watching her, cool and thoughtful; she had never before realized how many sharp edges was a turian's face.

She glanced away and went up to see Dr. Chakwas.

—

"I hope this wasn't some sort of poorly-planned publicity stunt," Dr. Chakwas remarked. "Especially as we're in the middle of space, and there aren't any reporters about."

"No, it was just a dare," Ashley said.

Dr. Chakwas gave her a look that made Ashley feel like she was about five years old, and had just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "A dare," the doctor said dryly, bending forward to squirt some medi-gel on Ashley's lip. "Of course. Can I assume that our turian guest was uninjured during this episode? Or will he be making an appearance here as well?"

Ash winced; the gel stung a little. "Nah, he's fine." Probably kinda embarrassed, though. "I don't think I gave him any cooties, doc."

"I certainly hope not," Dr. Chakwas said, and chased Ashley out of the medbay.

—

In retrospect, it was probably silly to go to Dr. Chakwas for such a minor cut, but it had, at least, gotten Ashley out of what had probably been an extremely awkward situation down in the garage.

This caught up with her a few hours later, when Garrus cornered her in the ammo room.

"Williams," he said from the doorway. "I was hoping we could have a word?"

Ashley, who in all honesty hadn't been expecting him to come _after_ her, jumped and banged her elbow on a shelf. "Hey, Garrus," she said, as nonchalantly as she could. "What's up?"

He stepped into the room. The door slid shut behind him and he leaned against it, folding his arms neatly across his slim torso. "I must admit," Garrus said, "I'm fairly confused."

"About what?" asked Ashley, who actually had a pretty good idea what about, not that she would ever admit it.

"Kissing. I hear that it's a—sign of affection? Shepard wasn't very clear." His mandibles flickered. "Some of the other humans," Garrus said, "seemed to be of the opinion that it was a courtship ritual. Or a mating ritual. They weren't very clear, either."

"Yeah," Ashley said. "They wouldn't be. Probably too busy laughing, huh?"

"Unfortunately so." He sounded wry. "I hear this was a challenge on Shepard's part?"

"Yeah."

"I think I'm supposed to tell you that I'm not interested," Garrus said.

Ashley blinked. She hadn't been expecting that, either. "What?"

"Isn't that what I'm supposed to say? I'm turning down your initiation of courtship—"

"You know," Ashley said, "most of the boys on this ship would be _happy_ to be getting a kiss from me."

It was Garrus's turn to blink. He straightened up, looking puzzled. "I hope I haven't offended you."

"Nah—" And this whole thing was getting so ridiculous that Ash had to laugh. "It's just that human girls get a little—uh, _pissy_—when you tell them you're not interested. It's a cultural thing, I guess."

"Oh, I see," Garrus said, nodding. "That makes sense."

And then, in two strides, he had closed the distance between them and was pulling her close; he was warm, and very strong, and the tips of his talons were against her cheek and for one long moment Ashley forgot to breathe.

"_Oh_," she said.

And: "What are you doing?"

It came out rather less furiously than she'd expected; his claws were on her skin, sharp as a knife-edge and gentle as a kiss, and her hands were on his shoulders because she was dizzy. "Initiating courtship," Garrus said, sounding puzzled. "So you can turn me down. Right, Williams?"

"Right, yeah," Ash said, not entirely listening, and arched up against him.

Garrus drew in a breath, sharp and startled.

And then his hands weren't so gentle; his claws were catching in her clothes, her hair, and she would have marks on her skin later when he raked his talons down her back and shoved her up against the wall; "Anytime now, Williams," Garrus growled in her ear, low and a little hoarse, and instead of saying anything sensible—or anything at all—she gripped him, hard, and pulled him closer. Garrus made a sound like a strangled gasp, and their breathing was coming all ragged, and Ashley closed her eyes and—

—and someone was knocking at the door.

"Shit," Ashley said, her eyes snapping open.

They let go of each other immediately; by the time Fredericks slid the door open and peered in, she and the turian were standing at opposite ends of the tiny room and not looking at each other. The private glanced between them. "Everything okay, Chief?" he asked, curious and puzzled.

"Yeah," Ash said, running her fingers through her hair and wondering just how rumpled it looked. "Fine. We were just talking."

"Right," Fredericks said. "I didn't mean to interrupt—I just needed to get a new upgrade for my pistol—"

"No, no, we're done here," Ashley said, very quickly, and resisted the urge to glance at Garrus as she brushed past the private and made her escape.

—

Right. Well.

Clearly she'd taken one too many blows to the head.

"Turian," Ashley said out loud, just to make sure she wasn't dreaming. "I just spent the past five minutes making out with a turian."

Then she pinched herself, to make extra sure.

Nope, still awake. Oh God. She was going crazy. She was hiding in the locker room because she desperately wanted to sleep with a turian. She hated turians. There had been the First Contact War, and he wasn't human, and they'd indirectly ruined her father's military career, and he wasn't human, and they were a stuck-up, self-righteous species that blocked the Alliance at every turn, and _he wasn't human_—

Ashley dropped her head into her hands. Maybe if she ignored this, she thought, it would all just go away.

**

* * *

Part II**

It didn't go away.

Therum was crawling with ruins and excavation sites; too many to tell where this Dr. T'Soni was without a bit of scouting. "Right," Shepard said, surveying the maps, "We're going to split up. Kaidan and Wrex, take the east sector. Ash, Garrus, you guys go north. Tali and I will go west. Got that?"

Human and alien, combat and support—it made sense. Ashley didn't particularly like it. Not when she remembered the feel of his talons against her skin every time she glanced at Garrus—which, if they were going to be paired up together, was going to be quite often.

Shepard caught her expression. "Something wrong, Ash?" he asked.

"No, sir," Ashley said, and bent to her weapons.

"Huh," said Shepard, but he let it go.

They set out.

It was every bit as awkward as Ashley had feared it might be.

"So," Garrus said after a while, in a valiant attempt at making conversation. "Uh. Lots of Prothean ruins around here."

"Yeah," Ashley said, striding onward through the red dust.

"Old place."

"Yeah."

"You have visible marks on the back of your neck, did you know?"

"Yea—Oh God," Ashley said, and stopped in her tracks. "You've got to be kidding me."

"No."

"Oh God," Ashley said again, her military career vanishing before her eyes.

"They're only visible when you have your hair tied up like that," Garrus offered, stopping before her. "They're not too bad. I don't think anyone else has noticed. I, uh, didn't mean to injure you."

"It's fine," Ashley said, feeling rather fatalistic about it all. "I liked it."

"Really?"

And now he was watching her in a way that was making Ashley flush beneath her armor; turian or not, she was pretty sure what that expression meant, and it wasn't exactly an invitation to discuss interstellar politics over lunch. "We have an asari to find," Ash said abruptly. "Let's get to it."

Garrus inclined his head. "On your command, Williams."

And that should've been the end of it, but it wasn't.

—

She made a mistake.

Actually, she made two.

The Normandy docked at the Citadel a week later with the asari on her crew, and Ambassador Udina was there to meet them as they disembarked.

"I've scheduled four interviews for you, Shepard," Udina announced, without preamble. "Come with me. I must prepare you for them."

"Right," Shepard said wryly. "Interviews. Yeah."

"Well, come on, then," Udina said, sounding impatient, and stalked off without glancing back.

"Huh," Ash said. "Interviews. That should be fun, skipper."

"I'm going to shoot him." Shepard said. "Or beat him to death with my pistol. Or—or something. Go grab a drink for me, all right?"

"We'll be sure to catch you on the evening news," Kaidan said, grinning. Shepard made a face.

"Enjoy your shore leave," he called over his shoulder as he set off after the ambassador. "You've got forty-eight hours; don't be too trashed when you get back."

So of course they all had to go drinking together after that, even without the commander; Tali was all ablaze to see the Citadel, and Liara was trying not to be shy, and Wrex—well, Wrex always looked like he needed a drink or ten. And then Ashley had to go, because Wrex didn't look like the responsible sort and Tali and Liara were still practically teenagers, after all, and Kaiden went because she was going, and Garrus—

Ashley tried not to think about Garrus.

This came back to bite her in the ass later when they went to Flux and Ashley unthinkingly found herself sitting next to him in the crowded booth. Their hips touched. Her first mistake, Ashley would think later; she gripped the edge of the table a little too tightly and remembered what her mother had said once, years ago, about her terrible taste in boyfriends.

"Wow," Kaiden said, from the other side of the booth. "Real waitresses. Nice place."

"Stare a little harder and your eyes'll fall out, LT," Ashley teased.

To his credit, he didn't even blush. "And you've been ogling the bouncer long enough that his shirt should've caught on fire by now," Kaiden said affably. "It's pretty crowded in here, actually. I'll just go get our drinks from the bar—what do you guys want?"

Her second mistake: "Martini," Ashley said.

"Me, too," said Liara, who clearly had never had a martini before, and most likely wasn't even entirely certain what one was.

"Something strong," Wrex said. "Don't really care what."

"Right," Kaiden said, getting to his feet. "Tali? Garrus?"

"Galatana sunrise," Garrus said. "From the turian menu, please."

"Me too," Tali said, who was even worse at this than Liara. Ashley wondered if quarians even had alcohol on the Flotilla—or whatever their equivalent of alcohol was. Dextro-amino acids and all; Shepard had made them sit through a holo on it when Garrus came onboard the ship, just in case any of them tried to offer him a doughnut or something.

"Right," Kaiden said again, and went weaving off through the crowd. Ashley leaned back in her seat and grinned.

"This is the part where we grizzled war vets take some young kids out drinking, isn't it?" she said dryly. "Liara, Tali, I know you don't get out much, but try not to end up in a ditch somewhere come morning."

"There aren't any ditches on the Citadel," Tali pointed out.

"It's a turn of phrase." Ash frowned. Liara wasn't listening; she'd craned her neck around to look at the dance floor. "Liara? Hey, Dr. T'soni."

"Hmm?" Liara said, whipping around again. "Oh. Yes. Ah, do you think—" She made an embarrassed gesture with her hands and fell silent.

Ashley laughed. "Well," she said. "What's a night out without dancing, huh?"

—

Two drinks later—or maybe it was three—and Ashley was out on the dance floor with Kaiden and Liara, the music thumping loud in her ears and the world a pleasant haze of movement and color. Three drinks, and it suddenly seemed like a very good idea to press up close against the lieutenant and smile at him with something more than friendliness; he was human, after all, and not unwilling, and when he put his arms around her his hands were five-fingered and reassuringly free of talons, and Ashley thought: _well, hey, maybe I'm not as crazy as I thought_—

And then she looked up, past his shoulder, and Liara was looking lost and lonely and a little bit stricken. And Ashley couldn't do that to her—not even if she were an alien, blue-skinned and all.

"Hey," she shouted in Kaiden's ear, over the sound of the music. "Go dance with the doctor, okay?"

"What?" Kaiden sounded surprised. "Ash, why—"

But she was already pulling away from him. "See you later, Alenko," she said, and stepped off the dance floor. Ash ran her fingers through her hair. It was late, and she'd had a little too much to drink, and Liara T'soni had a crush on Kaiden Alenko. A good time to make her exit, probably.

Over in the booth, Garrus and Wrex and Tali were engaged in a heated debate about omni-tools, but they looked up as she approached. "Well, that was fun," Ashley said, flopping down back into her seat. Her—fourth?—martini was mostly untouched. She picked it up and drained it in one gulp; it had cost her a good five credits, after all, no sense letting it go to waste. "I'm going back to the ship. You want to come with, Tali?"

"No, thanks," Tali said, and Ashley shrugged and got to her feet again.

"Suit yourself," she said. "See you guys later."

"I'll walk you," Garrus said.

She stared at him. Garrus seemed not to notice; he was already standing up and nodding goodbye to Tali and Wrex, and after a moment Ashley realized that she really should protest, but by then it was too late because his hand was on her elbow and he was steering her out of the club.

"You don't have to," she protested anyway. "I'll be fine."

"Williams, you're drunk."

"Not very _much_."

They stepped outside into the corridor. The doors slid shut behind them; in the hallway, the lights were dim and the sound of the music was distant. Night-cycle in the Wards, Ashley thought.

"I'll walk you anyway," Garrus said. "Come on."

—

Four martinis, and it seemed like a good idea to kiss him as they passed through a deserted alleyway.

She was careful this time. There wasn't any blood, and for a moment Garrus was very still—but in the next he had pulled her up against him closer than Kaiden had ever dared, his body warm and strong and _alien_, and she thought of his claws bare against her skin and tightened her grip on his arms. "This—" she said. And: "We—"

"I have an apartment down on the Wards," Garrus said. "If you—"

An invitation if she'd ever heard one, and "Yeah," Ashley said, because she was tired of thinking and had had too many drinks to do it properly anyway. He found them a cab, somewhere, and then they were stepping out of the elevator to his rooms and Garrus was keying open the door; Ashley was just sober enough to realize that tomorrow morning she would regret this, but for the moment his arm was around her waist and she was wondering what a turian looked like beneath his armor.

"I can't offer you anything to drink," he was saying, as they went inside and the door slid shut behind them. "Even if I hadn't been out for a month—"

"I think I've had enough to drink," Ashley said. She liked the way his skin felt beneath her fingers. She liked the way his breathing went all ragged when she slid her hands beneath his shirt and pulled it off. She liked the way he growled her name, low and a little desperate.

"You can probably call me Ash," she said.

"Another aspect of the human courtship ritual?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure—"

The back of her knees hit the edge of his—bed?—and she tumbled down onto it. A turian without his armor; they were descended from something like birds, Ash remembered vaguely, beaks and talons and lightweight bones, elegant and austere, and her heart was pounding against her ribs and she was breathless. His claws were tangling in her hair. His hips flared out beneath her hands, sharp and angled and not at all human.

She really did have the worst taste in men.

**

* * *

Part III**

Ashley didn't wake up with a hangover. She almost wished she had; a hangover, at least, might have stopped her from remembering who she was in bed with: namely, one of the aliens that had started the First Contact War.

"Oh, God," Ashley said out loud. "I was really drunk last night, wasn't I?"

Garrus, who was already awake, pushed himself onto his elbows and glanced at her. "Not really," he said. "You said you could make it back to the Normandy alone."

Ashley groaned. "I slept with you, didn't I?" she said. "I can't believe I actually slept with you. I don't even like turians."

"Why not?"

She told him.

"So," Garrus said slowly, "your grandfather surrenders to us at Shanxi, and ever since you've held a grudge against my entire species?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Ashley said, sighing.

Garrus was silent for a moment. He flicked his mandibles. Then he said: "That's a bit unfair, isn't it?"

"I know," Ashley said. She covered her face with her hands. "It's unfair, it's racist—and then I'm a total hypocrite and end up in bed with you anyway. I'm going to the special hell, aren't I?"

"Er," said Garrus.

"Don't answer that."

"I really wasn't planning to," Garrus said dryly.

—

The best solution, Ashley decided, was to pretend it had never happened. Well, she would have a discreet talk with Dr. Chakwas first. But _then_ she would pretend it never happened. She was human, and—and _proud_ of being human, damnit—and if she desperately wanted a lesson on alien anatomy she would go look in a _textbook_, just like everybody else.

Right. Yeah. Nothing had happened.

Except, a few weeks later, it happened again.

They were back from Feros. The Normandy had just docked. Ashley had planned on going down to the markets and doing some shopping; she'd have a drink, maybe two, and then head _right back to the ship_—

Instead she found herself in Garrus's apartment, tangled up in his bedsheets come the start of the day-cycle in the Wards, and beside her the turian was looking a little anxious as she ran her fingertips down the length of his arm and across his talons. "Be careful," Garrus said. "They're—"

"—sharp, yeah, yeah, I remember," Ashley said.

"You know," Garrus said, "I, uh, found some extranet sites for this sort of thing."

Ashley blinked at him "What sort of thing?"

Garrus looked faintly apologetic. "Human-turian physical relationships," he said.

"You mean porn?"

"Well," Garrus said. "Yes, actually."

She touched his claws. They were curved and wicked-looking, strong enough to tear through skin and flesh if he wanted to; she'd always gone for the dangerous types, Ash thought with a sigh. "You sound surprised."

"I am," he admitted. "I mean, they're vastly overshadowed by the asari fetish sites, but ah, considering the vastly different aesthetic ideals between our species, not to mention the issue of biology and culture—"

Ashley snorted. "If it exists, there's porn of it," she informed him. "All these people in the galaxy, _someone's_ gotta find it attractive. I saw this really weird clip a few years back between an elcor and a hanar prostitute, of all things."

"A hanar _prostitute_?"

"You don't get out much, do you?"

"Apparently," Garrus said, sitting up, "I need to start going where _you_ go. I was just thinking, in terms of this—"

"This," Ashley said firmly, "was a mistake and it shouldn't happen again. Yeah?"

Garrus sighed. "All right, Ash."

—

But nothing ever worked out the way it was supposed to. Ashley had an excuse: Noveria was really, _really_ cold. It wasn't _much_ of an excuse, but at this point Ashley was happy to grasp at whatever straws the universe decided to toss her way, especially when she found herself curling up against Garrus in his hotel room on this icy corporate world.

It was an opulent room—Shepard wasn't skimping on anything, now that the Alliance was paying him tons of credits to prospect new planets as they hunted down Saren. For some reason Ashley wasn't in her own opulent room; clearly sleeping with the turian was a terrible idea, but she kept doing it.

"Turians don't like the cold," Garrus told her, his skin rough against hers and his voice soft in her ear. "Palaven's a warm planet."

"I remember the vids." Shepard was taking their inter-species cooperation program on the Normandy very seriously. "Hey, uh, I didn't mean to end up here."

"I don't mind."

"I do," Ashley said gloomily, turning over onto her stomach to look at him. "My mother always hated my boyfriends, you know."

"I'm sorry?"

"There was this guy in high school," Ash said. She curled her fingers against his shoulder. "His name was Andrew—and he used to hang out with this gang—I don't even remember which, now, but I remember Mom getting in her 'I told you so' when Andrew got himself arrested." She sighed. "Then in my second year with the Alliance I met this—this corporate guy. One of the Noveria types. He was a real jerk—dumped me for some holovid model a few months in."

"A holovid model?"

"Yeah." Ashley shrugged. "Sylvie something-or-other. And a few years back there was Nikolai. Turns out he was already _married_."

His hand closed around her wrist. "You really do have a low opinion of me, don't you?" Garrus said.

Ash blinked at him. "What?"

"You don't like me," he said. His claws were against her skin, sleek and dangerous, and he lifted her hand from his shoulder and let her arm drop back onto the bed. "I don't know if it's because I'm a turian, or you find something else objectionable—but you don't like me. Which is a pity, because I rather like you."

"Garrus—"

But he was already getting to his feet, his claws clicking on the tiled floor, and this was the most expensive hotel on the planet but there was a definite chill in the room. "Shepard asked me to talk to some of the ERCS guards when they got off duty," Garrus said, tugging on his clothes. "I'd better get to that. See you around, Williams."

—

Right.

So.

That could've gone better.

Actually, she couldn't think of any way it could've gone _worse_; Garrus was polite but distant, and Ashley felt like the biggest jerk in the galaxy, and Shepard was eying the both of them suspiciously. It was only a matter of time before the commander pulled her aside to ask about it, and Ashley had never been good at lying to her superior officers.

"So, what's up with you and Garrus?" Shepard would ask.

"Oh, nothing much," Ash could imagine herself saying. "We had sex and now we're not talking. No biggie, commander."

"Right, sure," Shepard would say, before backing away very slowly and recommending her for a psych evaluation.

God, what a nightmare. The worst part was, it was all her fault.

The special hell, Ashley remembered glumly. She was going to it.

—

In the end, Ashley did what any confused young woman in her position would do. On their way out from Noveria, the Normandy passed a comm buoy, and Ashley called her mother.

It took a few seconds to connect. "Williams residence," came the cheerful voice of her younger sister, across light-years of space and galaxies away. "Ash? Is that you? It says 'Citadel Spectre' on the ID—"

"Hey, Sarah," Ashley said. "Is Mom around?"

"What, you don't want to talk to me?" Sarah teased. "Come on, sis, what's up?"

Ashley sighed. "Please, Sarah? This is important, and I've only got ten minutes on this thing."

"Ooooh," Sarah said, giggling. "This is about a guy, isn't it? Mom! Ash wants to ask you about a guy! Hey, it isn't Shepard, is it? That would be cool, my big sis and the first human Spectre getting together as they fly around the galaxy—"

Her voice faded as their mother took over the phone, though Ashley could still hear Sarah laughing in the distance. "Hello, Ash," Mrs. Williams said. "How are you? What did you need?"

"Hi, Mom," Ashley said. And: "Yeah, Sarah's right. It is about a guy."

"I thought so," her mother said dryly. "Do I get to know his name?"

Ashley winced. "I'm afraid not," she said. "Listen, Mom, I did something really stupid—"

"Oh, no. Is he a crime lord? Did his wife find out?"

"No, _no_, nothing like that—" Ashley sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. "I just—I don't know what to do."

"How did you two meet?"

He landed a perfect shot on a thug holding a doctor hostage, Ashley thought. But she couldn't actually say that out loud. "Uh," she said. "At a med clinic. He helped us out with some information-gathering."

"And then?"

And then we went to a whole bunch of different planets and shot geth together. She couldn't say _that_, either. "We went drinking," Ash said instead. "He walked me back to the ship."

"What's he like?" her mother asked.

He's got three fingers on each hand and metallic skin to counter high radiation levels from a planet that isn't Earth. "Really sweet, actually," Ashley said. "He's very, uh, careful. And polite. And a good shot with a pistol. And he likes me."

"He sounds nice." Mrs. Williams tactfully did not add, _for once_. "What's the matter, then?"

"Me," Ash said glumly, and told her why.

Her mother was silent for a moment after Ash finished her long, rambling explanation. "Well," she said at last. "Have you tried apologizing?"

"No," Ashley admitted. "What do I say? I'm sorry I insulted your honor, please forgive me, let's go grab some coffee? Mom, I blew it. I really, really blew it."

"I know," her mother said dryly. "Apologize anyway. Ash, do you even like this guy?"

She'd never considered it. He was a turian; she'd always assumed the answer was _no_. "I don't know."

"Think about it. It's important."

Yeah, it was, wasn't it? God. She was such an idiot.

**

* * *

Part IV**

"Hey."

Garrus looked up from his workstation. "Williams," he acknowledged. "Can I help you?"

"I wanted to apologize," Ashley said, and then promptly forgot the rest of her speech. "Uh—I'm sorry. For being a jerk. And insulting you. We live on the same ship, and I, uh, didn't want there to be any awkwardness."

"I wasn't aware that there _was _any awkwardness," Garrus said, sounding fairly puzzled.

No, he had just been exceedingly polite whenever they came across each other in the corridors. Ashley sighed. "Well," she said, shrugging. "Regardless, I'm sorry."

Garrus was watching her carefully. "Apology accepted," he said at last, inclining his head. "Was there anything else, Williams?"

She couldn't tell if he wanted there to be something else, or if he just wanted to be rid of her. Well, how did that old saying go? In for a penny, in for a pound. _Do you even like this guy?_her mother had asked—but really, it was Garrus who deserved the answer.

"Yeah," Ash said. "One more thing. Look, I really do like you, all right? Way more than I knew what to do with, not that that excuses anything. I mean, you probably can't stand me at the moment—not that I blame you—but I just thought you'd like to know."

"Oh," Garrus said, seemingly at a loss for words.

Ashley backed away. "Well," she finished rather lamely. "I'll see you later, then."

And she made her escape.

—

Days and planets and systems later, and Garrus sent her a poem. It was turian. It was very old; Ashley looked it up over the extranet, and it was written millennia ago back on Palaven, back when the turians were first looking up at the stars and contemplating what it might be like to visit them.

It was a love poem. _Author unknown_, the Codex told her. _Estimated date of creation: 1500 B.C.E. Translations available: default, Hendrickson, Anderer (recommended)._

She read it through—two, three times—until she had it memorized.

And then she read it through again, just for herself.

The trouble was, Ashley thought, she had no idea what this sort of thing was supposed to mean.

—

(desert)

With flaming hearts we did form  
the moving sands of time into sculpted  
glass and stood tall against  
its testing storms.  
Beneath its weighty blaze we stood,  
cool, and through  
its lonely nights we were together.  
And against its marching dunes  
we stand again, a testament to its  
sleepless pilgrimage, a reminder to time  
of changeless things beyond its reach.

-_Author Unknown, 1500 B.C.E. (Translation: Elizabeth Anderer, Columbia University, 2176 C.E., in collaboration with the Department of Linguistics, University of New Macedyn)_

—

The Citadel again, and Ashley caught up with Garrus as he was leaving the Normandy.

"I got your message," she told him, lengthening her stride to match his. "Well—I didn't really get it. Was that a turian break-up note? Bye, thanks for the sex, don't call me—"

"No," Garrus said, sounding amused. "That was—well. A traditional overture. I was hoping we could try this again. Properly, this time."

He liked her. He really liked her, and in all honesty it was more than she deserved and way more than she expected; somewhere out there, Ashley thought, her dad was looking out for her, because she was definitely getting a little extra help on this one. "Oh," she said. And: "Yeah, I promise I won't be so much of a jerk this time around."

Ashley was still terrible with turian facial expressions, but she thought that Garrus might have been smiling. His hand was on her elbow, his claws light against her skin; "I'll buy you dinner," he offered, tilting his head to look at her. "That's what humans do, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Ashley said.

Oh, man, she totally did not deserve this.

But she wasn't going to screw it up this time.

—

By now it would've been more of a shock if they hadn't wound up in bed together. Ash hadn't even had anything to drink. She wasn't sure if she cared.

She wasn't sure if she should care.

And afterwards Garrus curled his arm around her, warm and sleek, and she turned off her translation protocol and he murmured the poem to her in the original; he was an old-fashioned sort, Ashley suspected, and the thought made her grin and think of old gunslinger movies back on Earth. "They teach you that sort of thing in military school?" she teased. "Or did you pick it up in between C-Sec postings?"

"Military school, actually," Garrus said.

Ashley paused. "—wait, really?"

"I'm afraid so," Garrus said. And: "You know, I thought you said that you didn't like turians."

Well, she liked this one, and she was tired of being conflicted about it. "Hey," she said. "My grandfather thought you guys were honorable enough to surrender to, thirty years ago. Maybe I've changed my mind."

"Have you?"

"I'm mulling it over." Ash shrugged. "My mom likes you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She thinks you're nice." Of course, she didn't know he was a _turian_, exactly, but Ashley didn't see the point of bringing that up just yet.

"And what do you think of me?" Garrus asked.

Ashley couldn't help but grin. "I think you have really terrible taste in women," she said. "That would explain what you're doing here with me, anyway. Not that I'm not happy, mind."

He was quiet for a moment, his mandibles flicking, the blue of his tattoos vivid on his skin in the dim lighting. "I'm sorry about your grandfather," he said finally. "And your father. Shepard told me what happened. They didn't deserve that sort of poor treatment from the Alliance."

Maybe her mother would like him anyway. Ash pressed her lips against his shoulder and closed her eyes. _Dad_, she thought. _You like this one, huh? Yeah, me too._

"Thanks," she said. And: "Hey, traditionalist turian guy—what happens after you make your poem-overture-thing?"

His talons were against her waist, dangerous, sleek; the sharp ridges of his hips were against hers. "Your turn for a poem," Garrus told her, and Ashley was pretty sure that he was smiling. "Impress me, human."

* * *

A/N: I love Garrus. He's always struck me as very chivalrous, for some reason, and Ash has all these issues with turians, and, well, this happened. Credit for the 'turian' poem goes to F. Tisch, with some heavy editing on my part, and I actually had something in mind for Ashley but it didn't really fit in here, so if anyone actually wants to see me write terrible terrible sonnets then I'll post it up here later.


	7. Support: First Wave

A/N: No ships, but a few oddities.

* * *

**The Consort**

Sha'ira is the Consort, and so she is many things to many people—so many things, and so many people, that sometimes she wonders that she even remembers who she is. It's a nightmare she's had on occasion—other minds crowding against her own, human and turian and asari and all the other varied races who come to her for comfort—and she is drowning amongst the tangled coils of thought that are not hers. It's strange and alien and a little frightening; if Sha'ira were one of her own acolytes, she would advise them to seek out some peace and comfort of their own—take a month off, indulge yourself somewhere warm and sunny and order exotic drinks with silly names, come back when you have forgotten some of these burdens—

It's good advice.

But the trouble is: Sha'ira is not an acolyte. Sha'ira is the Consort, and well aware of the responsibility that comes with being confidante to some of the most powerful beings in the galaxy; there is, if truth be told, no escape for her. Sha'ira can order all the silly drinks she likes but always, always she will remember the secrets she keeps—secrets, so many, that sometimes she forgets which are the ones that belong to her.

Not that it matters; what matters is that she keeps them.

—

**The Ambassador**

If there is one flaw in the Alliance military—and there are many—it is that they do not understand politics, Udina thinks bitterly. Likely it is a flaw of any military organization everywhere. This is cold comfort on the days when messages are pouring in after some disaster—yes, Shepard, it's an _excellent_ idea to shout insults at the Council, you _vapid fool_—but on other days, when things are relatively calm and there hasn't been news of some cock-up or other for a good while, Udina can pour himself a drink in the quiet of his office and reassure himself that all the other ambassadors have to put up with this too. So an asari commando has been caught trying to tap into a high-security elcor research network? Good luck with that, Ambassador, I'm certain the Council takes this trespass seriously.

What, a three-week waiting period for an audience? How unfortunate.

And how _dreadfully_ unexpected.

Of course this schadenfreude is always short-lived; some aide will coming rushing in with dire reports that a colony's been blown up or a protest has gotten too rowdy or some idiot pro-human politician was found in bed with an asari prostitute, and Udina will have to get off his sorry ass and try to sort things out as best he can. He is here to advance humanity. Ha. Maybe, _maybe_, if he's very lucky and the Council's in a good mood and all the stars are in alignment, then _maybe_ humanity will be allowed to have a greater presence on the galactic stage by—oh, let's see—appointing a human as an aide to the sub-chair of the sub-committee of the Citadel Janitorial Overview. In a decade or so.

It's almost enough to make Udina want to jump into bed with an asari prostitute himself.

—

**The Executor**

Venari Pallin would have been the youngest Executor in four hundred years if he had been born an hour earlier, but by some strange quirk of fate he is instead the third-youngest; it's a useless bit of trivia, told to all the recruits on orientation day, and it always gets a chuckle or two from the crowd before Pallin moves on to the rest of the otherwise decidedly-unhumorous speech. Most of it is the standard reel about honor and duty and lawfulness, but there's a few extra pieces that he's taken to throwing in lately: a sentence or two on remembering proper rank and protocol; a word on interspecies civility—or at least tight-lipped tolerance—no matter how you might like deck that annoying hanar on the street corner; a whole paragraph dedicated to outlining the procedure for withdrawing from C-Sec if this career path proves too daunting to be followed.

Pallin always delivers these with pointed looks at every human within glaring distance; it's not _his_ fault that humans have the highest dropout rate of all the species that enlist.

Perhaps someday, Pallin thinks, it would be a human sitting at his desk, a human giving the orientation speech to the new recruits, a human appointed Executor of Citadel Security—perhaps sometime even within his lifetime, considering how far and how quickly the humans had already risen.

But it would take far, far longer for that human's name to fade into trivia; only when humans have finally earned their place in the galaxy will it happen, and _that_ is centuries and centuries yet in the making.

* * *

A/N: I was trying to write Sha'ira/MShepard and this came out instead. Sorry for the lack of updates recently, but I dunno, I just haven't come across a pairing with any decent chemistry. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who left suggestions, I am not trying to impugn your favorite pairing or anything, but I mean Joker/Liara and Kaiden/Ashley just strike me as kind of _boring_, so I couldn't think of anything to write for ages and ages, and I would love to do Thane/Shepard or something but ME2 isn't even out yet.

Maybe I should do this random pairing thing for other games?


	8. Dreadnaught: Invictus

A/N: Wrex/Aleena (Remember her? She's the asari mercenary that Wrex tells you about.)

* * *

"The best thing about being a merc," Aleena said dreamily, "is getting death threats from military brass."

Wrex glanced at her. She was sitting across the table from him, sprawled inelegantly across the dingy seat of the booth they were sharing; her hands were curled around some violently orange drink and the shape of her guns were faintly visible beneath her clothes. "I got two today," she added, reaching across to snag some chips off his plate. "One of them was just some junior officer pissed that I killed his brother or something—I don't know why, they didn't even like each other—but the other was a turian general. Top brass, Wrex. He's got the stars and that stupid little hat and everything, made a general press release about how I was becoming a nuisance—"

"I thought the best thing was getting paid," Wrex said.

"Oh, _money_," Aleena said, dismissively. "Who cares about credits? Your face on the news vids—now _that's_ what I'm talking about." She grinned at him. "A turian _general_, Wrex. I'm moving up in the world, huh?"

"Never doubted you wouldn't," he said dryly, and pulled his plate to safety when she tried to take another swipe at his chips. "Here's an idea: how about you celebrate by getting your own food?"

"But I hate this place," Aleena said. "That thing—whatever you've got—it's disgusting."

"Then why do you keep trying to eat it?" Wrex demanded.

"The starchy bits are all right," she admitted. "But the fried proteins in oil—I'd be sick later, if I ate that. You ever throw up, krogan? You know what it feels like? I'll tell you what it feels like—bloody awful, that's what."

"Order your own and I'll eat the damned proteins for you," Wrex said, "but stay away from my plate, asari."

"Oh, fine," she said, rolling her eyes, and waved the waiter over.

—

They were both fresh off a job and in no great hurry to look for another, so Aleena had a second drink and then a third and a fourth, and by the time they left she had started bursting into giggles at the least provocation. "Careful, asari," Wrex said, holding the door open for her as she went through. "You're dead drunk."

She grinned up at him, her eyes bright with intoxication under the city lights as they walked. "There's a quarter-million bounty on my head," Aleena informed him cheerfully. "You gonna try for it?"

Wrex snorted. Drunk or no, she was walking straight and her hands were steady and he could feel the pulse of her biotics as strong as ever; he wouldn't get into a fight with her, not here, and especially not if he could help it. "Only a quarter million?" he asked. "Let me know when it hits half, might be worth my while then."

Now she was laughing outright. "You cocky bastard," she said, approving, and then Aleena was winding her fingers through his claws and there was a faint tingle against his skin as she brushed her mind against his, suggestive. "I like that."

Well, this was new. Wrex glanced at her sideways. "What are you doing, asari?" he demanded, because it was always a good idea to ask and piss her off now instead of not ask and piss her off a lot more later—there was a pretty damned big bounty on his head, too.

"Oh, come on, like you don't know," Aleena said. "Your place or mine?"

It took him half a heartbeat to make up his mind. "Mine," Wrex said. "Bigger."

"Good," she said, and pressed up against him, close, her guns bumping into his armor and the hum of her biotics singing in low harmony with his.

—

Back in his room he watched her strip, clothes and mods and weapons tumbling to the floor with quick efficiency—a shotgun, two pistols, two knives on her wrists and one on her thigh and one at her hip and three more tucked against her chest; a vest, a shirt, boots and leggings and light body armor; neural connection, omni-tool, bio-amp—

"You really need to take off all that?" he asked her.

"Of course not," she said, stretching out on the bed, her skin gleaming violet-and-silver as she moved. "But it's more fun this way, don't you think? Your turn."

Wrex shrugged and shucked off his armor. Full body contact; he'd heard about the process. "You remember I'm heavier than you, right?" he asked, tossing his spare ammo onto the table. "What are you, forty kilograms?"

"Forty-five," Aleena said, "and if I let myself be crushed then I'll fully deserve to die."

"Fair enough."

She was smiling, teasing and mischievous and brimming with anticipation. "Come here," she said, reaching out for him, her eyes filling up with blackness like the coming of night. "You'll enjoy this. I promise."

—

The blue haze of their mingling was still fading when she left. "That was fun," Aleena said, dressed and armed again, leaning down to press her mouth against his cheek. "See you around, Wrex. Don't let the genophage keep you down, huh?"

"Aren't you asari supposed to be diplomatic?" Wrex demanded, sitting up.

"Oh, I can be diplomatic," Aleena said, grinning and unrepentant. "I just got out from an inter-unity exercise with the grumpiest krogan in the galaxy, didn't I? And I wasn't even tempted to shoot him once."

The door swung shut behind her as she went. Wrex could feel her presence trailing down the hallway, bright and happy and still a little drunk.

—

He saw her on the news vids a week later, a short clip from that turian who wanted her dead; her picture was in the background as the general made a speech to the various reporters clustered around.

"Him," the human said, tapping the screen with one finger. "General Virilik, currently off duty at his Galatana estate. I want you to kill him. Two hundred and fifty thousand credits—half before, half after, delivered to any account you like, with a ten percent bonus for avoiding civilian casualties. Do we have a deal?"

Two hundred and fifty thousand credits. A quarter million.

"Yeah," Wrex said. "Consider him dead."

* * *

A/N: Consider this an apology for the previous lackluster chapter.


	9. Frigate: Shadow II

A/N: Garrus/Shepard. Political fallout from interspecies romance.

* * *

Shepard is cleaning her gun.

"Back on Earth," she says, with quick, angry strokes along the side of the rifle casing, "men used to duel over a woman's honor." She glances up, shakes out her fingers, impatiently flicks a strand of hair away from her eyes. "It was a serious thing," she says, an edge to her voice that Garrus can't quite decipher. "People died over it."

Garrus watches her, uncertain. "Honor is worth dying for."

"Not that kind of honor," Shepard says dryly. She flips the casing over, steel glinting in the bright lights of the Normandy's deck. "The kind of honor that comes from a few hundred years of accumulated prejudices about sexual dimorphism." She sounds bitter. "The kind of honor that you could restore with a bullet, or a punch to the face."

There are disassembled rifle pieces everywhere. Shepard is looking troubled. Garrus catches himself with his hand half-raised; he had been about to touch her shoulder, but there are a gaggle of crewmen on the other side of the deck and an engineer making himself tea in the kitchenette and it would be far too obvious-even here, on the Normandy, which is their home.

So instead he says: "Shepard, are you all right?"

She bends her head over the casing, the tumble of her hair hiding her expression from the world. "I wish there was some way I could fight for you," says Shepard, very low. "Your honor is worth any number of duels."

—

There are reporters, now, trailing after them whenever they dock at the Citadel, and curious on-lookers murmuring about them when they pass.

Publicly, Udina presents it as a triumph of inter-species relations-the ultimate proof that turians and humans can coexist in harmony even in the wake of the First Contact War, the ultimate sign of harmony and tolerance and cooperation-

Privately, of course, it is a different matter; Garrus has heard the shouting.

"Have you forgotten the debt you owe to humanity?" he's heard. And: "How do you think this makes us look to the Council? To the other races?" And: "You're not an-entirely-unattractive woman, Shepard. _Surely_ you have other prospects."

_Human prospects_. The implication goes unsaid.

"No."

It is unclear what, exactly, Shepard is refusing, but her eyes are cool and defiant.

"You could at the very least try to be more _discreet_," Udina says, scowling

_No,_ thinks Garrus, watching them both. No-she couldn't. Not about this.

—

Once there was only one reporter, and Udina doesn't know, and the world doesn't know.

"We don't have to do this," Garrus tells her.

"I know," Shepard says. She's smiling. It's a look Garrus remembers from the border planets they've just come from scouring-a grin in anticipation of battle, and all she's missing is her shotgun in her hands and a swarm of geth waiting for them in the next ravine. "Are you still up for this?"

Of course. "Ready when you are, Shepard."

She kisses him. Her lips are soft against his cheek, and then there's the flash of the camera as Emily Wong begins her interview.

—

"This is going to be trouble," Shepard tells him bluntly.

"This?"

"This. Us." She makes a gesture, encompassing the whole of her room and the turian currently tangled in her sheets. "People will talk. There will be rumors, and I doubt Udina or the Council will be pleased-"

Garrus sits up, watching her. "What do you want to do?"

"I-" Shepard stops, turns on her heel to look at him. "I want you to be happy."

That's unexpected. Garrus blinks. "I am," he says. "Whatever battles you want to fight-I trust you, Shepard."

"Oh." There's a softness to her voice. "Thank you."

—

Time muddies things.

But Garrus remembers a planet of ice and snow-glaciers and gunfire and danger everywhere-and one moment's he's doing fine with his pistol and the next moment a grenade blast has knocked him off his feet. Shepard's upon him in an instant, sliding down a snowbank to cover him with shotgun fire; then, for a very long time, there are mercenaries shooting at them and Garrus is shooting back around the side of Shepard's hip because for some reason his armor has gotten stuck on a rock.

And it's undignified but they survive, and afterward Shepard hauls him to his feet with something like wary relief. "Careful there," she says, snow swirling around them like a shroud. "Your ass was nearly toast."

She's just saved his life. Garrus manages a passable thank-you; he's never been good with such things.

Shepard holsters her gun with half a grin and says: "I was worried about you for a moment there. You all right?"

"I'll be fine, Shepard."

The Normandy is half a klick away and Lieutenant Alenko has taken the Mako. Shepard eyes him. "You think you can make it back to the ship?"

"Yes." The next words are out before he can stop them: "I'm with you, Shepard. Wherever you need me."

And in the snow-filled moment the words take on all the significance with which he means them, and Shepard looks at him and Garrus looks back and there's a silence in which he suddenly understands why he would follow this human woman across the galaxy.

There's a clarity to it, like ice.

Shepard doesn't quite see it, not yet-but she will.

"Thank you," Garrus says again, and means it more than he can say.

"I couldn't just let them fill you with holes, could I?" Shepard asks. "Come on, we'd better get moving. I've got you covered."

* * *

A/N: Wonky computer and wonky internet from overseas, sorry for weird typos/formatting/etc.

Written in celebration after Thane became a confirmed romance for ME2—here's to hoping Garrus gets the same treatment. PLEASE BIOWARE PLEASE.


	10. Cruiser: Patriae

Miranda/Thane

Spoilers for ME2, in case it wasn't obvious.

* * *

"Come with me to Illium," Shepard says, leaning against her desk. Miranda raises an eyebrow.

"Why?" she asks. This is the first time Shepard has requested her presence on a mission; she doesn't think he trusts her.

But Shepard only says: "You look like you could use a break from the paperwork."

And Shepard is the party leader, so Miranda shrugs and suits up and goes with him to Illium to hunt down an assassin. Later, crouching behind a stack of crates in Nassana Dantius's tower, Miranda will briefly muse that Shepard seems to trust everyone _but_ her—unstable biotics, hotheaded vigilantes, adolescent krogan—even Jacob, who is a Cerberus agent—

(But then again, everyone trusts Jacob; there's something about the man that exudes honesty.)

(Later, staring at the dark-eyed drell from across the meeting-room table, Miranda will wonder why Shepard hadn't asked Jacob to do the debriefing for Thane Krios.)

—

The assassin is green-skinned and somber, and he watches her silently as she paces.

"Your main duty will be to assist Commander Shepard on his missions," Miranda says, heels clicking against the Normandy's deck. "He will, on occasion, request your presence in his shore party, and he may ask you to perform certain tasks for him at his discretion. You will be compensated for your time, of course, and for any expenses you incur."

"Understood," Krios says, bowing his head in acknowledgment; his voice is a low thrumming in too many tones for her to pick apart. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes." Miranda pauses, turns to look at him. "You understand that you'll be working for Cerberus?" Jack had thrown a fit; even Vakarian had voiced his disapproval.

"Cerberus." Krios's expression is unreadable—or too alien for her to read. "The pro-human organization?"

"Precisely. If you have any objections—"

"No."

Miranda blinks. She hadn't expected acquiescence so quickly.

"I'll be taking my orders solely from Commander Shepard, correct?" Krios says. And, at her nod: "Then I have no objections."

(And it's strange how many of these spies and assassins and mercenaries would follow Shepard, simply because he asked. Miranda has never been able to inspire that sort of helpless loyalty; she had never even wanted to try.)

"Very well," Miranda says, and sees Krios out.

—

She goes through his file afterwards, alone in the privacy of her room, and marvels at how little there is in it. A record of his birth on Kahje, a school award for placing second in an art contest, a hospitalization form for a broken arm—

Then, nothing.

Until, years later, a marriage is recorded. Krios has a son shortly after: one Kolyat, male, born six weeks premature—

And nothing again for another ten years, before suddenly the hanar are honoring Krios with medals and awards and he is being treated for Kepral's syndrome. That, really, is the end of his official records; there are a handful of pictures from the award ceremony and a transcript of his acceptance speech (gracious and brief), and that is all.

Everything else—his clients, his contacts, his targets—is rumor, picked up by Cerberus agents. Doubtless the great majority of these rumors are true, but it's still more uncertainty than Miranda is comfortable with.

Krios is, supposedly, the best assassin in the galaxy.

But the people who would know best are dead. It's the trouble with recruiting assassins.

—

The Illusive Man thinks that Krios is a mercenary.

He isn't. Miranda has seen him fight and bleed and pray, and if Krios fights for anything it would not be money. She doesn't know what he does fight for. Sometimes she thinks he might be looking for redemption; sometimes, she thinks he might not be looking for anything at all.

Mostly: Miranda thinks that Krios kills because he doesn't know anything else.

—

"Operative Lawson."

She glances up from her report. Krios is at the door, his jacket immaculate, his hands held carefully where she can see them. "Krios," she acknowledges, rising. "Thank you for coming by."

"You said you had questions for me?"

"There are," Miranda says, entirely aware of the massive understatement she is about to make, "a few gaps in your record."

"Yes."

"I was hoping you could fill them in for me."

Krios blinks at her, the odd double-stutter of his eyelids disconcerting in how entirely alien it is. "My apologies," he says. "Much of that is sensitive information. I am sworn to secrecy by nature of the Compact."

And say what you will about the hanar, but they have damned good firewalls. Miranda sighs to herself. "What can you tell me, then?"

"I had a wife." His voice is cool. "Mercenaries killed her. I can give you their names and final words, if you like."

Mercenaries had killed his wife. This hadn't been in the files; she might have to send a request to the Shadow Broker.

(The Illusive Man hates the Shadow Broker. _Too flashy_, he says, disdainful. _Careless operations. Needless advertising. Terrible name._)

"Yes," says Miranda. "Send me the list, please."

The drell inclines his head, adjusts his cuffs, turns to go.

"Krios?"

"Yes?"

She only hesitates a little. "I'm sorry," Miranda says. "About your wife."

Another blink, a flash of an expression she cannot decipher (perhaps she's simply terrible at reading people). "Thank you."

And he's gone.

—

Thane Krios.

Single. Green-skinned and exotic. Won't send her into anaphylactic shock. And he doesn't have his eyes glued to her arse every time she turns around, unlike a good three-quarters of the Normandy crew.

And: her father would have hated him.

Years and light-years away from her adolescent rebellion, Miranda still smiles at the thought.

—

He asks her to call him Thane.

They've finished a mission; Miranda is bidding him farewell as she heads back to her quarters and he to his. "Please, call me Thane," Krios says, and she nods and he bows and they go their separate ways.

And afterwards Miranda will remember the hanar and their tradition of Soul Names, and she will wonder if Krios—Thane—has one.

—

She asks him to call her Miranda.

Well. Not quite. There's a kiss first, in her private quarters, after a day with too many memories and too much blood; there is her sister, and her father, and a man who loved her and betrayed her and died—

"Don't," says Thane, sweeping his fingers against her cheek. "It's done. Here—"

And he kisses her.

(Oral contact may cause mild hallucinations.)

She can almost taste his memories on his lips.

—

Thane doesn't look at her as a human might. He doesn't think she's beautiful; doubtless she's the wrong color, and the wrong shape too.

Alien. Exotic, perhaps. She can accept exotic, but Miranda is tired of being beautiful, and she is tired of being alone, and whatever people might think the two are neither unrelated nor contradictory. This is Miranda: a paragon of human beauty, sleek and model-slim and the best collection of recessive genes that money can buy. She hates it.

(She hates her father.)

Thane kisses her and for once in her life Miranda doesn't worry that he's doing it for her looks.

—

The trouble with a ship like the Normandy—or any ship, really—is the rate at which the gossip spreads. And the real trouble is: Miranda's quarters are just outside the mess hall, and Thane departs right at breakfast time with half the crew staring.

So she isn't surprised when Shepard comes by later, his eyebrows raised.

"So," says Shepard, and pauses, expectant.

There's no getting out of this.

"It was—" Miranda cannot bring herself to say _a mistake_. "—unexpected."

"I've heard some interesting stuff from Mordin, actually. There's a cream if you need—"

This is mortifying. Really, truly mortifying. "No, thank you."

"Right," Shepard says.

There is a long, long moment of silence. Miranda reminds herself sternly that it's none of the commander's business what—or who—she does in her spare time. "I assure you, Shepard, this will not affect my performance on the mission in anyway."

"Right," Shepard says. And, infuriatingly enough, he pats her on the shoulder: "Well, I'm glad to see that you're enjoying yourself, at least."

Then the man has the gall to _leave_ before Miranda can come up with an appropriate retort.

"Yes," Thane sighs later. "He said the same thing to me."

—

Thane is not a mercenary; he's an assassin, and a father.

And Miranda watches him with his son and it hurts hurts _hurts_ to think that out there, there are fathers who love their children.

Kolyat Krios is not—as children go—the luckiest.

But he is luckier than she had ever been, and when Thane reaches out to touch his son Miranda has to turn away before she puts a bullet through a wall. _Her_ father is not the sort to admit that he was ever wrong; her father is not the sort to tell her that he loves her (because he doesn't).

It's a petty thing to be jealous of, but Miranda is jealous anyway.

—

"You could have him killed," Thane says, after she tells him her whole long self-indulgent tale.

He's an assassin; of course he would think that. Miranda shakes her head. "It would be unwise. He's far too important to a great many people Cerberus doesn't wish to annoy."

He watches her for a moment, dark eyes unfathomable. "I'm sorry," Thane says at last.

"Thank you."

He presses his lips to her cheek, her mouth, her throat. Miranda is happy for the distraction.

—

The assassin is green-skinned and somber, and his blood is spilling out onto the floor of the Collectors' base.

Miranda scrambles for the medi-gel. Thane pushes her away. "Leave it," he says, ragged. "There's no use."

"I'm not leaving you to die—"

"More of them are headed over here!" Tali's voice is sharp over a burst of gunfire. "We have to move!"

They can't hold the position.

"Miranda." Have his eyes grown darker? "I was already dying. Go."

Frantic shooting. Barriers are fizzling out; Miranda is sorrier than she has ever known, and on a battlefield there's no time for mourning.

She stands up abruptly. "Retreat!" she calls out, "Fall back to the Normandy, Shepard has placed the detonator—"

The squad is already moving. Miranda runs.

She looks back one more time before the end—foolish, but she does it anyway—and through the haze of blood and biotics and corpses Thane is still watching her, unfathomable. He catches her eye, lifts his fingers to his lips—

Then: Collectors, gunfire, Normandy, Shepard.

Liftoff.

Explosion.

(And he's gone.)

—

They've saved the galaxy.

"Hooray," Shepard says grimly, looking over the row of coffins as he orders Joker to set a course for the Citadel.

Miranda curls her hand into a fist and breathes against the tightness in her chest.

* * *

AUGH FF SCREWED UP ALL THE FORMATTING IN ALL OF MY FICS AUGH


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